In An Age Full of Heroes
by fjun
Summary: There is a gathering of clouds, darkening the horizon as the chains of fate rattle. The sound is eerie, molten iron to the heart. Yet, Araris Cousland, who once chose self-imposed ostracism over a life of nobility and wealth, must follow its call. Otherwise the chains, their touch as cold as death, shall leash his family in place to be devoured by fate's cruel darkness. AU.
1. The Past Devours

_Story note:_

_Ye shall be warned, this story will feature AU elements and interpretations or reinterpretations of mine. Though nothing overly changing. If you're allergic or averse to such things, please turn back now._

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my__ AU changes to your own story,_ then, please, do so.

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter I**

**The Past Devours**

**.**

**.**

The tall man, draped and hidden deep inside his dark woollen cloak, entered the city of Antiva through one of its minor gateways. Immediately the city's smell assaulted his delicate nose. The scent of salty seawater mixed with sour wine and spices as well as the sweet breeze of whore and debauchery made his nostrils wrinkle in welcome.

Thankfully the guards, always stationed at the minor gate shortly after dusk each third day, knew him already from the few past trips he made into the bustling port city. Thus his passage went uninterrupted and unnoticed, save by a few.

Navigating with adeptness through the city's contorted streets and alleyways the foreigner soon found his destination, a local tavern, always rife with rumour.

**.**

**.**

He seemed utterly oblivious to the quartet of observing eyes following his every movement from atop the city's tilted rooftops since he entered it through the arched gateway.

They'd been told that their newest target would be of the more dangerous ilk. More so if they'd allow him to unsheathe his blade. Ostensibly, the man had some exceptional skill in swordsmanship. Which, of course, meant that this particular contract had no place for mistakes or novices participating in their devious art. Only the best of their _claw_ would suffice. Thus they were here now, hunting, eagerly awaiting the tall male to exit the tavern's comfort again.

The claw leader and his deadly companions would then jump the height of thirty armspans down the sloping buildings' fronts and decelerate their descent with a simple gravitational spell. If their prey wouldn't simply be frozen in shock by the sudden arrival of four assassins appearing all around him out of thin air, daggers drawn and poised to strike like vicious vipers, then a slight nudge of sorcery on their part would do the trick, no doubt.

One didn't simply face off against four seasoned sorcerers who were furthermore trained and in service of the Antivan Crows. No matter whom one was. Even most other Crows would try avoid such suicidal odds under any circumstance.

If there was one thing commoner and noble alike feared and admired throughout the country even more than a common Crow assassin, then that were members of the _Corvi Magi_.

Night had already settled by now, the arriving sea breeze filling their bones with a welcomed chill, while their hearts accelerated in lustful anticipation. Blood would soon be spilled. The climbing crescent moon illuminated the cobbled street below, piercing the overcast sky with its silvery light, like spears.

The door opened with a protesting creak, loud in the silence of the night, and their target reappeared, stumbling slightly. Probably drunk. Sounds of merriment and laughter could be heard from within the tavern till the door shut again.

Their target's inebriation would make their work easier. If your target was piss drunk and couldn't walk in a straight line, then factors such as speed and viciousness and accuracy lost a bit of their importance. As a woeful side effect it also minimised the thrill of the hunt considerably.

But one didn't become a member of the Antivan Crows, much less their cadre of mage-assassins through inflated pomposity and prideful arrogance.

Without a sign or spoken command, the four assassins simultaneously plummeted off their respective roof's edge, down into the street like a nosediving eagle, closing in on its prey. The claw leader opened himself to the Fade and felt its power as it surged through his body. The blossoming of power around him told him that his fellow peers had done the same. They uttered a few syllables under their breath and their descent slowed.

Perfectly synchronised the four Crows landed with nearly inaudible thuds of their moccasin-soled feet, surrounding the tall man in a half circle.

He didn't back away in surprise and, only a few paces away now, the leader saw that their target looked even taller up close, probably because he actually was. He towered over the largest of the assassins surrounding him by nearly half a head. Yet it'd do him no good.

The leader darted in for the kill with quick and confident steps, daggers in a reverse grip and upraised, aiming at the target's heart and throat like a serpent's fangs.

Yet they never found their intended mark.

In quite an unexpected and unbelievably quick motion the stranger flicked off his woollen cloak with one hand and threw it at his face, robbing him shortly of vision.

_Not drunk then._

He felt another tug at the back of his skull. Someone else reached into the Fade, though this power felt utterly different than all he ever felt before. And he reached deeply, albeit with perfect control.

Suddenly, he felt a heavy pressure weighting down on him, squeezing with biting cold.

An eerie wail pierce the silence of the midsummer night, just on the edge of his hearing.

The woollen garment flattered out of the way, deftly batted aside by his left hand.

And before him stood a man no more.

Fear now cursed along his spine. An unfamiliar tingle, if he ever felt one.

It was a haunting image, that nonhuman creature now hovering before him, as if underwater. It had no body which would really deserve the description. Ethereal tendrils and wasps of pale grey and ghostly white shimmered and flowed and shifted with self-imposed intent. He was barely able to make out shapes of a face and a body with legs and arms here and there. Torn and lacerated pieces of clothing shifted as if tugged by some unseen wind or underwater current. The creature's face was human in appearance, though severely wounded on the left side. Cheek gone, showing strands of muscle and shimmering bone underneath, the wound raked itself upwards to the left eyeball. The creature's eyes held no semblance to what a human's eyeball would look like, both were pools of infinite blackness.

Surprising himself, the Crow leader, still midstride, acted on reflex, striking with his two curved daggers. Again, aiming for his initial targets. No time to reach into the Fade and draw forth enough power to conjure a quick spell, the assassin responded with inbred martial force. Two poisoned daggers entered the ghoulish apparition's neck and chest right between two ribs.

_Maker's bride have mercy upon my soul_.

'For you, she won't, assassin.' A voice hissed low inside his head.

Fear now cursed in palpable shivers through the claw leader, right before the wraith's blade cleanly took his head off.

**.**

**.**

A cold smile marred his blue-blooded features.

He sat perched on his haunches. With a tattered piece of cloth, nonchalantly ripped off from one of the assassins' garments, he wiped the blood befouling his blade off with gentle and caressing swipes. Finished with the task he rose from his crouched position, sheathing the sword in a smooth and practised motion.

He gazed around, looking for any sign of further presence in the gloom.

Searching the assassins' pouches and pockets, many of them hidden and filled to brim with poisons and throwing knives and lyrium potions as well as elfroot remedy, had availed him nothing of further use. Only an inconspicuous brass sign. A sign which he could place a local name to. A name he did not want to cross unless he absolutely had to. Which he did, quite obviously.

That someone, with a name he knew, wanted him dead.

It filled him with dread. Not the killing of these four mage-assassins, lying in their own pools of freshly spilled blood. Nor did he mind the killing that would have to be done in order to gain even the slightest information. Information which would confirm his fears one way or another.

No, the implications of this failed assassination attempt filled him with dread. A curious thought, ironic even. The smile vanished off his lips, turning into a sneer. But it also made him seethe with anger.

One who tries to hide from social interaction and company as much as he did, does no simply attract the attention of the Antivan Crows' deadliest, their magi cadre. It defied every notion of logic. Or, mayhap, it had been on a mere whim of a gathering of four apostates who had been expertly trained in the art of professional murder by the Antivan Crows. Very implausible, that.

No, to attract their unfettered attention like this, meant that someone had not only found him and knew who he was, it additionally meant that this illusive someone also wanted his rotting corpse never to be found in some forgotten ditch. In a way he felt flattered that he merited such a violent, and, no doubt, expensive, course of action.

Yet it wouldn't stop with him. He'd only be the first.

Now, there was no time to dally. He gathered his cloak which had, unexpectedly, survived the harsh abuse of its owner in one piece.

_Alas, it'll be a saddening goodbye, at least for me._

**.**

**.**

Long after the Grand Cathedral's twelfth bell rang, loud and clear throughout the city, for the last time that day, Isabela, pirate, raider and infamous captain of the _Siren's Call_ loitered around. She occupied her usual table inside the usual brothel. It was one of the fancier whorehouses, well at least around the dockside districts of Val Royeaux. Which didn't mean much.

Isabela, always a good judge of character, assessed her newest crewmember and, undoubtedly, the crew's handsomest male addition. His current resting place, a puddle of cheap ale, already drying up, informed her of the saddening fact that he was unfit for the any kind of naughty activity Isabela had had in mind when she proposed to her crew a visit to the usual brothel.

"Egad," she moaned, "what sad times we women have to face. Men, once predictable, now not even the prospect of a naked lass, purring beneath, arouses them."

Isabela sighed. 'Stupid Blight.'

Laughing at his captain's peril, her first mate, Casavir, joined her at the table. A mug, half filled with murky ale in one hand, whilst the other roughly clapped onto the unconscious sailor's slumped back sleeping in his pool of cheap beverage. The man yelped and toppled sideways, off the bench. Arrived, face down on the stone tiles, he began to snore anew in bliss.

Casavir looked at her, one bushy brow arched, a slight smirk covering his scarred features. Of course he had to offer advice, every skilled first mate had to, even in a situation when Isabella would want to hear anything but.

"Oi, capt'n," he began and gulped down half of his residual ale, whilst the other half trailed down his face and bare chest exposed by the unbuttoned quilted gilet he wore, "you know 'em young lads now'days, them prefer sweet ale over sweet women. Takes 'em less guts to order a drink. An o'course them fo'get thei' 'roubls."

"Sad times, indeed," she muttered under her breath as her first mate belched loudly, before he fell backwards, off the wooden bench he sat upon, heels still lingering atop. He had joined in the snoring.

Alone again and left to her peaceful sulking, she raised her own glass of spirit to touch her lips, the former pirate took a reinvigorating sip. The taste of smoked wood burned down her throat. One of the many things she loved. Down her throat, that is.

Just as she was about to call out to the proprietor of the brothel, a petite, elderly woman called Melanie, Isabela heard the brothel's heavy wooden door creak open. A stranger of towering height entered, shrouded in a dark woollen cloak brushing over the dusty floor, his features hidden in shadows by a wide hood. At the neck, the cloak was held together by an elegant silver brooch.

With interest piqued, Isabela watched Melanie manoeuvring her way through the drunken and less lusty than usual lot of men, to greet the stranger in her establishment.

The ship captain couldn't discern what the proprietor then asked of the dreary stranger, yet the man spoke naught, only answering with a shake of his hooded head. In retort to the frowned eyebrows slowly appearing on Melanie's round and reddening face, the stranger threw back his hood.

At first Isabela mistook him for one of the elvish woodland folk, the Dalish. Fair and pale. At her own assumption she had to shake her head. Elves didn't grow this tall. Taking a closer look through narrowed eyes, she spotted the man's sharp and narrow bone structure and a slight gauntness to his features. It told her a tale of blue-blooded heritage. Plain as day. Loose strands of bright hair fell down long on both sides of his head, while some strands were tucked behind his, quite obviously, not-pointy ears.

Isabela felt her mouth dry a bit when she realized, the stranger had locked on to her rudely inquisitive stare, and currently made his way towards her, the brothel's proprietor completely forgotten at the entrance. There was an uncanny elegance and grace to his steps.

Dismissively, he toppled her snoring first mate over the edge of the bench with a nudge of his foot. The fair stranger perched down opposite her with a confidence like he owned the entire brothel. A few strokes of his fine-boned hand's bottom, as if to brush away crumbles of food.

'I am,' he spoke low, 'in need of your skills, captain.'

A predatory smile overtook her as Isabela mused, 'It seems my first mate was wrong in his assumption that, nowadays, every man has lost his courage and interest in sleeping with women.' She took his hand, which were smooth. 'Follow me then, handsome, I shall organize us a room for the night. Maybe some company.'

Her attempt at getting off the table, he cut off, 'As lovely as that sounds, I am afraid I shall have to decline your offer, for now.'

'Alas.' Pouting, Isabela let her shoulders slump deliberately, whilst sitting down again. "What else would you have of me, then?"

'Many a sailor around here speaks highly of you.' He shrugged. 'Other captains, not so much.'

'Don't believe those grumpy fools, then. It's as simple as that. They're just jealous of my steering skills. And, on top of that, they're jealous that I don't steer their wheels.'

Her mischievous wink was answered with brooding silence.

'How soon could you cast off?'

'Tomorrow, after sunrise.' Talking pure business now, Isabela leaned back, arms crossed under her chest. 'Listen, I don't know if you know, but I don't just take stray puppies, however sweet, on a voyage.'

'I understand.' He nodded. 'Coin will not be a problem.'

'Isn't that so?' Said Isabela and arched a delicate eyebrow. She scrutinized him. 'Very well, two things remain that I need from you, stranger.'

'What would they be?'

'Your name and a destination, of course.'

He slowly rose out of his seated position, tucking at his cloak, scrupulously smoothing out wrinkles. Then he gallantly bowed and introduced himself.

'I am named Araris Cousland, and my destination is not far. I must journey with haste, to Highever.'

**.**

**.**

There loomed a serene calm and peace over the dawning day.

The sun, yet still pale, slowly ascended in the east. The star's dimmed colour bled into the sky, changing the scenery and illuminating the port. Val Royeaux's dock workers stumbled to life, this day anew, as ever. Heaving heavy crates and barrels in the rising sun, filled with spices and fabric and jewellery and spirits and ale, they loaded them on the many ships occupying the stirring harbour.

Currently perched atop the sterncastle's hind reeling, her long legs crossed, Isabela surveyed her sailors below, scurrying around, readying everything aboard _The Siren's Call_ for departure.

Casavir walked up to her, emotional concern and unease all over his features. Or maybe it was the hangover, palpable by the smell, which proved the source of his obvious unease.

'Captain,' he slurred, though better than a few bells earlier. 'That man, Cousland, I 'eard of him.'

Whispering, he added, 'Rumour says he's been exiled for treason. On pain of death.'

'Traitor's to the crown are usually executed, dear. He still has his head.' Isabela closed her eyes and turned her head, facing a gentle breeze from the calm ocean.

'Them execute only common folk, not nobility, don't they?'

Reckoning her morning peace broken, Isabela deftly hopped down from her seat. 'Why're you telling me this, Cas?'

'Me doesn't think it wise to have him 'round, captain. Me believes he'll be trouble.' Her first mate ducked his head slightly. 'The boys feel it too, there's something off about him.'

'Oh, darn. Sailors and their superstition.' Isabela snorted wistfully. 'That something-is-off-about-him man is going to pay us royally. If the lads are superstitious still, their share of the wage will be cut. Tell the boys that. And tell them not to pout like little girls, only because there's a man graced with more beauty than they are. Shouldn't be new for most of them, really. Now scoot!'

Casavir barked a laugh and 'Aye, capt'n.' he said, before clutching his brow, ostensively to massage away his pain.

The clatter of horse hooves on wooden planks neared soon after that. Astride a gallant midnight mare Araris Cousland arrived, reining in his animal right below where Isabela now leaned against the rail. Admittedly, Isabela didn't know much about horses in general, but a well-travelled pirate queen recognized a beast of fine breed, obvious with Araris Cousland's horse.

Standing on her toes, on leg arched back at the knee, Isabela peaked over the ship's rail and called down.

'Where were you, we've been waiting all night and day!'

Something that could've been as much a grunt as a brief, misshapen laugh drifted up to her ears.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. It'd jump with glee. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	2. The Rise of Dark

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_A short interlude chapter to keep the story going. An actual update is one its way, and to be expected early next week. Enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter II**

**The Rise of Dark**

**.**

**.**

_Dumat's breath._

Never had she seen a legion, an army or a single invasion force as large as the gathering horde of Darkspawn in the valley below. Not even the natural and artificial defences of an ancient fortress like Ostagar would do much good. There were torches beyond counting, and Ser Cauthrien knew for sure that not every of these vile creatures would be carrying one.

All the precious time Teryn Loghain and King Calian had spent persuading Grand Cleric Elemena to allow the mages to fight with them in the upcoming engagement had been for naught. Not even the most powerful sorcerer of Thedas could hope to stand against such evil might.

Every life of every courageous soldier they'd send out into the wilderness to assess the enemy's strength, full and utterly redundant. A task so many of them had paid for dearly.

Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, Hero of River Dane stood still as if carved out of a single piece of stone. His piercing gaze watched vigilantly.

Thunder cracked open the nightly sky, illuminating, for a heartbeat, the shivering mass of humans behind her. Howling winds tugged at nearby trees, smaller trunks creaked and bended. Big droplets of rain poured down heavily, clashing against armour at a rapid pace. Loghain's raven-coloured, shoulder-length hair was already drenched through, strands clinging to his face, lightly obscuring his view. Just like Ser Cauthrien's.

Right now, she simply hoped that her liege lord wasn't as unsure and unconvinced as she was. Not to say that she was completely terrified. She could only pray one prayer after another in the Maker's name that Loghain knew how to turn the tables. Now, when it mattered most to Ferelden.

A deafening roar rose up from the valley below, usurping even the raging storm in its loudness.

The Darkspawn horde charged and the earth trembled in response. Crude axes and swords glinted in the staccato bursts of thunder bolts' bright lightening. Lumbering frames of massive ogres ran on their muscled legs, some as thick as an oak's trunk.

The sharp illumination of thunder filled the sky once again. Standing huddled together on both sides of the towering and ragged cliffs upon which the Tevinter fortress perched atop, were a few figures.

Ser Cauthrien squinted against the rain, but she thought she saw coats and robes and cloaks fluttering in the strong winds, tugging. After a moment she was proven right. Even Loghain looked up at the display. Maybe her frightened mind imaged things that weren't real, but she could've sworn that there were deep voices uttering an ancient language, just on the edge of hearing, in between the winds' gusts and the rolling thunder.

A huge wave of golden flame spanned between the two groups of magi, first climbing up then rolling forward before descending, growing in size as it raced towards the charging masses of Darkspawn below.

A ritual of enormous proportion. For days they'd sat there, the magi. Now, they were finally ready to unleash their terrible powers.

The enormous spell scythed into the horde, sending chunks hurtling in every direction, sweeping over the plains in erratic and barely controlled rage. When the magical wisps finally faded, endless amounts of bits of Darkspawn covered scorched earth. Ogres, their limbs shredded to mottled pieces, faces mangled, tumbled around a few heavy steps before finally collapsing. Sorcerous fire ravaged the entire span of ground covering the valley below, reaching even into the Korcari Wilds. The flaming quickly spread into the woods, trees aflame like huge torches.

It didn't stop the horde, merely killed thousands upon thousands of them.

In the distance above, a huge fire suddenly sparked to life atop the Tower of Ishal, seen clearly even from leagues away. Her narrowed eyes scrutinized the battle, raging below the hill she stood upon, then wandered on towards Loghain's passive frame.

The Teryn turned his head and bellowed. "Ser Cauthrien!" She stepped closer in a rustle of chainmail.

'Yes, your Lordship?'

'Sound . . . the retreat.'

Her heartbeat stopped, blood flow freezing solid inside her body. Every fibre of her being screamed and raged and clawed against what he just pronounced.

'But, your Grace, what about the king? We cannot leave him!'

He spun around, and grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, felt even through her gauntlets.

'Our king is lost.' Repeating softer, he muttered, voice deflated, 'Lost.'

He let go of her, and turned his gaze back upon the battlefield. Then he said, in his usual commanding voice, leaving no room for disapproval or disobeying, 'Relay my order, Ser Cauthrien.'

The female knight watched him for a moment, then turned on her heel and approached the army lying in wait. Her emotions raging like the sky above at what was happening.

_This cannot be happening. The Fade must've trapped me within a nightmarish illusion. A fate that could be. Yet, still, unreal._

Just before she was out of earshot and the raging storm would've swallowed up Loghain's words, she heard him whisper under his breath, 'Please forgive me, Maric, for I cannot.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	3. Toll of Justice

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_As promised, the next "full length" chapter. With some close-up action again. Enjoy!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes **

**Chapter III **

**Toll of Justice**

**.**

**.**

Sails stretched and spars creaked in the wind. The _Siren's Call's _prow carved through the frothy waves of the _Waking Sea_ like a sharp axe-blade. The ship's gentle sway lulled his mind into welcomed numbness. Araris was grateful for every diversion that took his reeling mind off and away from his racing thoughts.

Ever since the failed assassination attempt in Antiva City he could do naught but think of eventualities. It was tiring.

Araris remained in his cabin, though it also was the captain's cabin, which she had, in a sudden fit of altruism, proposed to share with him. After a while it had proved to be anything but altruism. Selfish desire, more likely.

He had long since grown exhausted of scanning the horizon for the first sign of land. He could only pray that it'd appear soon. Alas, he participated in no such non-productive amusements, like prayer. Venerating and pleading to a dubious entity in hopeful prayer wasn't really his thing.

Perched atop Isabela's considerably large bed time passed for him, leaning against the sloping backside wall, long feet stretched out before him in idleness. Araris had sifted through the pirate queen's cabin for something to read, and, after some time, he made a find.

Though the tome proved to be touching on most naughty and depraved subjects, even with detailed illustrations, he read it. Wondrous, how much new one could learn, in such a short amount of time. He hadn't ever dreamed about of doing . . . well, half of the things described in that book. And the other half was so utterly ludicrous, to even entertain the notion of it would be madness.

The cabin's double door opened and was hastily thrown shut again. The angry whistle of harsh winds could be heard stronger for a short moment, though the vigour of the storm seemed to have subsided a bit. Hours ago, Araris had though he'd surely have to tie himself to Isabela's bed with her iron cuffs, which surely were there for that exact reason and nothing else, if only to avoid flying around the cabin in an uncontrolled and laughable fashion.

Without preamble, his gracious host shook off her drenched leathern cloak where she stood and hopped onto the bed beside him like a wet cat. Quickly, as if her life depended on it, Isabela gathered all silk sheets and wool blankets she could find, and wrapped herself tightly inside them.

Araris closed his current read and got off the bed.

'What're you doing?' The Queen of the Eastern Seas jittered.

'Getting off the bed.'

'Obviously. Why?'

'You're drenching.'

She huffed through the blankets, 'What noble sentiment.'

Araris padded over to a nearby table filled to brim with navigational maps, compasses, phallus-like figures and liquor bottles. As luck would have it, he found two goblets nearby, too. Araris could understand if someone didn't know how to deal with Isabela's depraved wit – charm, as she'd surely say - or her constant sexual innuendo or her straightforward attitude with, well, everything and everyone.

But it'd be beyond him to ever question the smuggler's lavish taste in food and drink as well as men and women.

He shared those.

Araris filled one goblet with a strong and smoky whisky from Antiva, and the other with spice red wine from . . . he didn't rightly know where. But it went down the palate very smoothly.

Seating himself on a low window frame besides the bed, legs crossed at the ankles, the young nobleman handed Isabela the goblet filled with whisky. Just as he was about to chink his goblet against hers, the pirate gulped down her beverage in one go, leaving Araris with nothing but the choice to sip his vintage in solemnness.

Discarding her goblet carelessly, Isabela said, 'Now hand me the bottle, you Fereldan posh.'

Snorting a laugh, Araris did as he was bid by the raunchy dame.

Like a new-born babe, Isabela suckled greedily at the bottle's neck. She drank as she would water. _If she'd ever drink water, that is._

After a time, Isabela gasped. 'Ah, better.'

She dismissively discarded the bottle on the floor, where it ceaselessly rolled from side to side with the ship's sway, whilst she settled down in a more comfortable position.

'I hate the Waking Sea this time of the year. Storms, harsh winds and constant rain. And then there's that bloody cold coming from your country.' She shook her head. 'Unbelievable that I ever thought this could be fun.'

Araris took a sip of his red wine. 'It'll certainly be worth it.'

'I better hope so.' She eyed him suspiciously. 'If you're who you claim to be.'

He tucked a few strands of hair behind his ear. 'So you've heard of me?'

'My first mate did. Your name made him all giddy. Said you were exiled for something indecent.'

'What would that be?'

Isabela peered at him closely, then shrugged under the blankets. 'Treason.'

A few heartbeats of silence reigned.

'The only treason I committed was my silence, and to let my family find out from others,' Araris admitted. 'My ostracism was self-imposed, for reasons that'll stay mine.'

'O,' Isabela mouthed, 'no need to get touchy, wasn't prying. I couldn't care less. You pay nicely and, on top of that, your pleasurable company.'

The raider, layers of blankets still tucked under her chin, shifted and squirmed underneath. Smirking wickedly, she then proceeded to lift them up slowly, exposing the elusive absence of garments she'd still worn when entering her cabin, replaced with her dusky skin.

'Now, crawl in here and help a damsel in distress get warm and cosy, would you.' Isabela bid.

Thankfully, Araris managed not to choke on the last savoured sip of red wine.

**.**

**.**

'Land, ho!'

It drifted even through the wooden walls encasing the captain's quarters, like a wakeup call for the two spent persons tucked inside layers of silken sheets and discarded garments. Staggeringly, it even breached the barriers of Isabela's foggy state of mind.

Araris Cousland stirred into motion almost immediately.

Pushing up, Isabela tried to follow the younger man, but because of a sharp sting of pain flaring up inside her head, she reconsidered.

_Right. Bottle of whisky. Mean. _

Defeated, she slumped back onto the cushy mattress, massaging her temple.

Besides her she felt Araris shift through blankets and fiddle around on the floor for his residual clothing. Which seemed to prove quite the challenge, considering the gloominess of the cabin. Nonetheless, he managed in an admirably short amount of time. Unlike Isabela, who wouldn't even contemplate moving any part of her weary body.

Araris whispered, 'Isabela, up!'

She turned away, causing another flare of pain to occur, and mumbled in displeasure.

Isabela heard the rustle of a leather belt getting tied around a slim waist, followed by the clink of metal as Araris attached his sheathed longsword. The whisper of his dark woollen cloak being thrown over his slender shoulders and the drawing up of his hood registered next in her befuddled mind.

Why she so desperately concentrated on these noises, Isabela didn't really know. But it helped. Marginally. And thus, she finally managed to raise herself out of her warm and embracing bed. Just as Araris rushed out the cabin's double door.

Isabela threw over a few cloths, just few enough to not distract her hearty sailors entirely, but never mind her boots. They'd be too much effort for too little gain. Well, panties, at least. Finished clothing herself, the former pirate queen pitter-pattered out of her personal cabin on bare feet.

Arrived on the sterncastle, rudder firmly in her guiding hands, Isabela scanned the vicinity with a disgruntled gaze. Unfortunately she couldn't make out much other than ogling men.

A thick coat of drowsy mist hung above the relatively calm sea. Probably a result of Ferelden's cooling temperatures and the condensation of the rainy storm that had followed them all the way east along the _Waking Sea_.

Another call echoed down from the crow's nest, in more hushed tones. 'Ships ahoy!'

'How many?' Isabela shouted back.

'Five,' came the answer, rife with hesitance. Or maybe more, though that was left unsaid.

She frowned to herself.

'What flag do they sail?'

'Amaranthine!'

Just as in that particular moment, the damp mist parted like a curtain, as if scared away by divine intervention, admitting them a short view of the city of Highever.

On the right, perched on a light slope was the city itself. Rows upon of rows of buildings and huts stretched down, slowly changing into the port warehouses and taverns, lower down on the slope. Until, these in turn, gave way for the docking facilities at the end of the slope, with a couple of ships and boats docked by the shore. In front of those, a barrier had been erected, with six Amaranthine naval ships anchored there, their bulky design making it obvious that they're suited for heavy ship-to-ship fighting.

Nothing would get past them unnoticed.

Isabela's eyes wandered to Araris Cousland. But the young nobleman registered none of it, his piercing gaze was locked onto something else. Something positioned above the city.

Head whipping around, she followed his line of sight.

Left of the city and atop a rolling hill, with steep and ragged cliffs falling off into the sea below, towered proud the castle of the Cousland family. At least, she assumed that it was. Isabela had never been entirely sober on the few occasions she was near Highever. Massive banners softly winded in the wind, like slithering snakes. The castle emitted a gentle and flickering glow.

She squinted, looking closer.

As understanding dawned, Isabela's eyes widened in shock.

It was on _fire_.

Then, as the wind suddenly shifted its direction a slight bit, noise drifted down to them. Clear and loud in its intensity.

Screams and wails, fire eating at wood and stone, the clash of metal on metal and flesh.

_By the tide._

Isabela looked over at her noble passenger, more hesitantly this time. Araris looked like a part of the ship, rooted and unmoving like carved marble. Face devoid of any human emotion. Like a lifeless husk, flat eyes stared strictly ahead, glued to his burning home. A sickly paleness clung to his skin as if all the blood in his veins had evaporated in a single heartbeat.

'Single ship's changing course!' Another shout from above. 'They've spotted us!'

'Git!' Isabela cursed herself.

She though it all over, as quick as her pissed mind would allow. The wind would be against them if they'd try to run, she was pretty confident that they could outrun these heavy and slow war-ships. But if there were other ships outside the port's enclosed space, then those would surely catch up to them, sooner or later. Or intercept them. And the Amaranthine navy, however small, wasn't to be trifled with, every sailor worth his salt knew that. Running from them like a caught lass, tumbling in the hay with the local lord's son, would be hard to explain.

She left the wheel and took to leaning on the rail, scanning the approaching vessel through narrowed eyes.

'Casavir, steer us back into the thick of the mist,' She pointed. 'Out of sight.'

Isabela paced forward to the railing in front of the wheel, addressing the tense crew below. She looked them over. _Let's hope, Andraste's swaying tits._

'If they make trouble, the bastards will kiss pirate steel.' Whatever that was worth, but the crew cheered anyways. 'But for now, we tag along.'

Isabela smirked. 'Look unmindful, lads.'

'Aye,' they chorused.

Looking over her shoulder, Isabela felt unease rising up in her belly as she looked at Araris.

**.**

**.**

A frigate, longer than the Siren's Call by many armspans, pulled up parallel alongside them. The hulls' planks nearly scraped against each other in protest. But it seemed these were indeed seasoned sailors. Many of them were clad in mail or pieces of plate armoury, as if they were expecting heavy combat, which could quickly prove to be their demise on the high seas. _Or in a fight. _

The Amaranthine ship's deck height was of slightly lower built than that of Isabela's own vessel. Jumping down from the _Siren's Call_ above on the frigate's lower decks would make boarding easier for her sailors, should it come to that.

A heavily armoured knight, his features rugged, walked up to the sterncastle's railing, leaning one gauntleted hand against it. The other rested on the pommel of his sheathed longsword.

'Ho there, sailors,' he called over, 'might I ask what you're doing in these waters?'

Isabela, also leaned lazily over the railing. Elbows perched atop, head tucked sideways like a hawk, whilst resting in one palm.

'Wanted to make port in Highever, good ser. But it seems a little tight,' with her free hand, she gestured towards the harbour.

The knight actually chuckled. 'Indeed, you have chosen an unfavourable time. It'd be wisest to sail further east and make port in Amaranthine, good woman.'

Before Isabela could respond, Araris' icy voice froze every easy conversation she tried to build up. 'If we might ask, ser, what is happening at the castle?'

The knight frowned darkly at Araris' interruption.

'Arl Howe of Amaranthine brings justice to enemies of the crown.'

'And who might those enemies be?'

'The Cousland family, lad. They've been accused of espionage against Ferelden and dallying with the Orlesian empress herself, scheming to occupy Ferelden once more.'

_Oh crap._

After a pause, the knight added, 'Thank the Maker that Arl Howe found out about their treachery.'

Isabela was completely sure that what happened next, happened incredibly fast. Yet, somehow, her eyes managed to track it nonetheless.

Like a released bowstring, Araris vaulted over the railing. His jump was accompanied by no outcry or shout, only the rustle of his clothes in the air and the rush of swaying waves. Mid-flight his longsword sprang free silently, barely audible. All the Amaranthine knight, eyes opened wide, had managed was to step a few paces back. With a creaking thud of protesting wooden planks and uncanny grace, Araris landed in front of the man, just shortly before his blade arched down and bit into the knight's clavicle. Through bone and flesh, the weapon scythed deep, nearly splitting the hapless man in half, stopping shortly under the sternum.

That was when the shouting and screaming and calling began. Everything fell into disarray.

Only Araris moved with clinical precision across the sterncastle's deck. Two men tried to block his path down the stairs onto the ship's main deck. The first lost his sword arm and plummeted over the railing's edge in agony. The second soldier swung his axe in a horizontal arc at Araris' exposed neck. But all his strike met was thin air, thus he lost his balance, stumbling right into the nobleman's waiting blade. He shrieked like a wild pig pierced by a throwing lance. Looked alike, too.

Extricating the longsword from the soldier's torso with a savage yank, Araris kick him down the staircase and into the arms of upwards rushing soldiery. They went down in a heap.

Shaking herself free, Isabela waved her hand unceremoniously. 'Quick, lads!'

Her sailors boarded the Amaranthine vessel with hoots, attacking everything in sight that wasn't distinctively piratic and roguish. Scimitars flashed in the moonlight. Sprays and spurts of blood answered. It took only a few dozen heartbeats. When all men on deck were overwhelmed they began to clear the decks below.

With a graceful leap, Isabela crossed the short distance between the two vessels. Sounds of fighting and dying could still be heard from under deck. But up here, everything seemed relatively serene. If it weren't for the bloodied corpses. She began following the trail of carnage, leading her steadily towards the forward deck. In between, unmoving and obviously dead, lay some of her sailors. Her jaw clenched.

One soldier's head had been nearly cut off, though there still existed a spinal connection. Exposed, it glinting ghastly and bony white in the night's silvery light. So at odds with all the gore and the dark wooden planks. Another had been pinned to the ship's foremast, slumped forward, with Araris' longsword protruding from his belly. Yet another mangled soul had lost both his legs beneath the kneecaps, cleanly severed. Not even a healer would be of much help here. He would bleed out fairly quick, but for now he was still clutching to his rapidly fading life. Isabela couldn't bear his pained sobs, so she freed him.

She found Araris at the forefront of the ship, straddling a lying corpse at the waist like a lover. Neither did move. But then again, she heard silent pleas for mercy. So maybe no corpse. Taking a few more paces forward, she could see that Araris clutched the hilt of a pale dagger with both his hands, trying to push its curved edge downward. But the desperate soldier beneath fought for every inch with mad despair.

As she came into view, the soldier's eyes flickered to her, with what emotion, she couldn't rightly say. Could've been hope or fear or something entirely else, Isabela would never know. Because, in just that single heartbeat, Araris succeeded in driving his dagger down and into the man's soft neck. The dying soldier coughed up blood with his last breath.

Araris did not move. He still clutched his dagger, finger bones protruding in a ghoulish way and knuckles white from pressure.

The he let loose an equally chilling and heart-wrenching cry of anguish.

The young man slumped back on his shins, hands cradled in his lap in a lost fashion. He looked over the ship's prow, seemingly admiring the moon's silvery reflection on the calm water.

'Araris.' Isabela croaked. Surprised at the dryness of her own voice, she cleared her throat.

Ten heartbeats of silence followed. Twenty heartbeats. Fifty heartbeats.

Sure that he wouldn't answer or hadn't heard her, or chose not to, Isabela stepped closer, touching his left shoulder. With a surprised hiss he flinched away from her, onto his feet and drew back from her, clutching the reeling. That was when she spotted the crossbow quarrel deeply lodged inside his left shoulder. He, too, seemed to register it for the first time, for his hiss quickly turned from surprise to hurt.

In a blokeish manner he extracted the projectile with a sudden yank in a gush of blood. Ghastly pale now, Araris gasped, legs nearly giving out beneath him.

Isabela couldn't contain herself any longer. 'Why, by the Maker's balls, did you do that?'

'What?' He looked flummoxed.

'Attack them!' Isabela huffed. 'We could've left without an incident. Men died because you didn't think. My men, my sailors'

Araris perplexed expression darkened into something uncomfortable. He stepped closer to her. She could feel his breath caressing her skin, like a gentle breeze.

'They're slaughtering my family up there!' He hissed, venom thick in his voice. 'My father, my mother, my brother and his wife and their firstborn son.'

He returned to leaning on the reeling, seemingly wanting to bring some space between them.

Araris shook his head sharply. 'By the Abyss, what did you think I'd do when that whoreson dragged my family through the mire? Crawl up his arse with pleasantries?'

'You could've just shut up or went underdeck. Where you could've shut up, too! Now the Amaranthine navy will have it out for me!' Isabela yelled at him. 'And they're not known for treating pirates kindly.'

She pointed an accusing finger at the nobleman. 'I don't care that they're slaughtering your family up there. You put my life and that of my crew at risk, for petty reasons. What did it bring you? Hmm?'

She pointed behind her, at the corpses covering the deck.

'Andraste's tits, they're not even the ones doing the slaughtering.'

There was a flickering spark, icy blue, in Araris' eyes. Literally. It was over so quick, Isabela wasn't even sure she really saw it, or if her mind perceived things.

Araris gazed at her in disdain, an ugly sneer on his face, teeth bared. His fingers twitched as if readying to grab a weapon, but he was unarmed. His longsword still pinned a hapless marine to the main mast, whilst his pale dagger stuck inside the nearby soldier's throat.

Isabela was thankful for that. Otherwise she wouldn't be so sure if he would've soon done something regrettable for them both.

The tension between them dissipated palpably, when her fellow buccaneers rejoined them on the main deck.

Casavir walked up to them, expression sober and alert, he switched between looking at Isabela and Araris. He seemed to have caught on to the tension between them.

'We've secured the ship, captain. Lots of loot to be found below.'

Isabela turned to the gathering. 'God job, lads.'

The rattle of sabres and the howls of adrenaline-filled men came in answer.

Isabela spread her arms in an encompassing gesture. 'Take everything shiny you can find! And then all the rest!'

Her crew sauntered off to claim their loot and freight it onto the _Siren's Call_. Time was now of the essence. They had to get away from here as quick as possible.

Isabela looked back at Araris.

His posture had changed. Shoulders slumped a bit, flat look in his eyes, skin continued to be a ghastly pale. His dead and defeated appearance was furthermore reflected in his voice. Devoid of emotion, he spoke in chilly and croaky tones.

'Forgive me, captain,' he spoke slow, 'If it wouldn't be too much to ask for, could you drop me off in Amaranthine?'

Isabela huffed at his antics. 'Maker's breath, are you insane. Why, of all places, would you want to go there now? If I think about it, I don't want to go there right now!'

'It would be the unexpected thing to do. The one place the Amaranthine navy wouldn't think to look.'

'And you?' Isabela arched a delicate eyebrow. 'You're just going to butcher every Amaranthine soldier you find?'

'A tempting thought, but to hope that by doing so I'd manage to kill Rendon Howe would be foolish,' said he, voice as if he iterated something off of a scrap of paper. As if those were not his own words. As if it wasn't him speaking.

Araris turned his head away in a silent rustle of bright hair. Radiant in the lucid moonlight. Blatantly he had said what he wanted to say, and would add nothing more. It left Isabela a silence to contemplate in.

She sighed. 'Very well.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	4. A Gathering of Clouds

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_Here's the next chapter. This time a slow paced one, with a reminiscent and thoughful Araris. A bit of setting up for future events, too. Maybe you'll spot it. Enjoy!_

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter IV**

**A Gathering of Clouds**

**.**

**.**

Araris had found shelter in Amaranthine's more common and worn districts. He currently stayed at a small, shabby inn, on the south-western edge of the city. Earlier that day he'd scouted the negligibly less guarded city gateway nearby. Should the desperate need to leave quick and quiet arrive.

Seated behind a worn wooden table in a gloomier corner of the inn, he sat like some road-weary traveller. A single candle burned down slowly, lighting his lonely spot in warm flickers. Hardened wax coated the brass saucer underneath.

Placed before him were plates, now barren of steaming chowder with bits of potato and herbs and spice floating inside. A small pot with a ladle inside, discarded at the table's unoccupied side, filled with leftovers from the odd tasting fish-soup. Besides the plates, slices of stale bread to dip into the soup, a nearly emptied bottle of cheap and sour red wine and a glass occupied the table.

Araris sat on a wooden stool, his back perched against the cold stone wall behind him. Broodingly, he inhaled idle breaths of his pipe, the languorous taste of the Antivan pipe weed tingling deep down in the caverns of his lungs.

As he'd first entered the small tavern the sky had been pouring rain for hours, ever since he arrived in Amaranthine. Cloth soaked wet, a painful cold gnawing at his weary bones. Surprised heads snapped up at his entrance, because of the unexpected hour he arrived at. Only a few dreary guests greeted him. Eyes roamed over his drenched woollen travelling cloak, hiding his prominent features. Scabbarded longsword slung diagonally over his back, peeking over his right shoulder, nobody had spoken up. Just another desperate soul, seeking shelter from the rough weather.

After being assured that he wouldn't cause trouble, the large innkeeper offered him shelter from the harsh elements, bed and warm food for the night.

The only thing sadly absent, which he needed doubtlessly, was a bath. Never in his life had he felt this filthy and soiled. The scent of sweat and salt clung to his skin and clothes. He just wanted to take a long bath and scrub every last bit of dirt off his sore body.

The scarring wound from the crossbow bolt in his shoulder still itched terribly. His left arm still hadn't regained its full motoric functionality, sending spikes of pain and unease through his shoulder with every movement.

But life had changed and if he were to guess, he'd say that he was looking forward to a bitter and cynic life. Constant danger lurking in every shadow and hiding behind every tree and corner. As long as Rendon Howe lived, there'd be no peaceful moment for him.

Of that, Araris was sure.

**.**

**.**

Ferelden was in political turmoil. To put it nicely.

The only word associated with the Battle of Ostagar, and the late king's stand there, was either disaster or betrayal. It varied from mouth to mouth. Yet, better it did never get.

Word was that Teyrn Loghain had been able to draw back with most of his men in the nick of time. _Quite fortunate, that._ Saving thousands of soldiers' lives, a sizable portion even hailing from Highever. Not his brother, though, if rumours were to be believed. Araris had heard that Highever's remaining soldiery had left with Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna after the Landsmeet, but other than that, nothing.

Both of them are, after all, deeply loyal vassals to the Cousland family, and Leonas Bryland is, furthermore, distantly related to his family on the maternal side.

But all that was irrelevant, he could change nothing about any of it. So, to mull over what-ifs and what's-not availed him nothing other than a waste of precious time.

Yet, the cost of Loghain's retreat had been high. The royal forces had been obliterated down to the last man. His majesty, the young King Cailan had been murdered and betrayed by the Grey Wardens, who, in secret, conspired with Orlais' empress Celene.

_Just like my family._

Then there was also talk about the Landsmeet. And how things had turned sour very quick. Loghain had declared himself regent in light of the king's premature demise. Even going as far as pushing his own daughter, Queen Anora, off the throne and discard her like a wooden doll. Naturally Ferelden's numerous banns and arls and lords hadn't liked this kind of self-coronation.

Civil war was imminent and couldn't, by now in Araris' opinion, be avoided. That the queen, rightful in her legitimacy for the throne, did not oppose her father in the slightest hadn't helped either.

The divided banns wouldn't settle down peacefully. One side supporting Loghain and his armies in smothering the resistance, emanating from those banns who'd oppose Loghain's shady grab of regency.

Unsurprisingly, he was, after all, only a common man by birth. To have him govern as Ferelden's regent in the absence of a king during this time of strife would've affronted many a noble. Araris was sure of that.

Yet the man was, undoubtedly, an accomplished general and the most trusted advisor of two kings, by now, which would lure a considerable part of the Landsmeet onto his side. Either out of respect or out of fear.

And thus, two sides on opposite ends of the fence were created. Ready to charge each other with zeal. To spill the blood of brothers and fellow men. It was what the banns did in their infinite boredom, after all. They'd go to war with each other for petty things like elopements, wool and apple trees. This time they actually had a reason.

But, alas, what incredibly poor timing. Darkspawn weren't much interested in human politics and infighting.

Lastly, there was _that_ talk. The talk that made Araris stomach churn with seething rage and devouring hatred. Talk that made his fingers twitch, aching to curl around the grip of his weapon.

Rumours and whispers about the shady events at Castle Cousland, now put to the torch. Nothing but a smoking and blackened ruin remained, if the reports were indeed true.

The great Arl Howe, who thwarted a most treacherous plot of spies and liars and traitors. Rendon Howe, who did Ferelden proud with his selfless actions, stopping the planned invasion of legions of Orlesian chevaliers in its tracks. Rendon Howe who rightfully claimed the Teyrinr of Highever for himself and sacked the Arling of Denerim after a vicious mob ripped Vaughan Kendells, the de facto ruler of the arling - after his father died at Ostagar - to shreds. Araris had only remembered distant stories considering the Vaughan family, grim tales of sexual abuse in Denerim's alienage.

Yet other voices whispered other tales. The insidious Arl Howe, who in a fit of madness and lust for power, slaughtered the entire bloodline of the Couslands, to the last man, woman and child. Even the servants and maids. None were left alive. Just like the castle, he burnt down anyone who could know and voice the truth to oppose him.

He felt a pang of gratefulness at those voices.

But Araris didn't care for the truth. He only wanted Rendon Howe in the same room.

Whichever was the truth to the peasant folk, the fact remained, that as Arl of Amaranthine and Denerim as well as Teyrn of Highever, Rendon Howe could doubtlessly call himself the most powerful man in the entire kingdom. His armed forces would outnumber even Loghain's. Not to forget Denerim's city guard.

The last piece of local news, however accurate, was about Castle Redcliffe. If the rumours were true, Arl Eamon, a strong and respected voice in the Landsmeet, who had been mysteriously absent at the time, had fallen ill to an enigmatic sickness. Therefore his good wife, the Arlessa of Redcliffe, Isolde, had sent out her knights in a, if Araris would be asked, misguided and preposterous search for the Sacred Urn of Andraste's ashes.

When he'd heard that, he'd choked on his glass of wine. But well, legend said the ashes of the holy woman cured any illness. Common folk, unsurprisingly, liked their tales painted illustrious. An arlessa however should know better, than to bet everything on fancy tales and legend.

Araris himself believed it all to be plebeian rubbish. Common folk must believe in something, after all. Thus, there must be another, more logical explanation for the further absence of news from Redcliffe.

Having sat long enough in the shabby Amaranthine tavern, eavesdropping on patrons to gather information, the last living member of the Cousland family decided to finally get going.

Of course, he knew that simply running around and slaughtering every Amaranthine soldier wouldn't get him the opportunity to deliver bittersweet vengeance. It was tempting to just let it all out, unleash his rage.

Tempting, but _foolish_.

He'd need support.

And with Highever's troops vanished somewhere under the command of Arl Bryland, simply riding into the Bannorn and hoping to find them was ludicrous at best. He'd be just like Arlessa Isolde and a hypocrite, on top of that, for thinking little about her.

So, if Araris rode to Redcliffe, maybe he could manage to convince the elderly arl for his cause. Redcliffe's army hadn't participated in the Battle of Ostagar, thus the arl's armed forces would be at full strength, with the addition of the troops the arl's brother, Teagan, would contribute to Araris' cause, if he managed to forge an alliance, then that would make quite a formidable armed force.

At least it was something solid to start with.

**.**

**.**

The small fire cackled delightfully. Embers ascended into the cool of night. Greedily, its flames ate at the surrounding air and timber blocks. Shades of blissful orange coated the immediate vicinity. Crickets chirped in the otherwise silent night.

Araris sat on a boulder in front of the hearth.

Affixed on a wooden branch above the licking fire, a brass pot hung. With his ladle he stirred around the contents of his simmering stew. Pieces of potatoes and beans and tomatoes swirled alongside slices of chopped lamb meat seasoned with spices and herbs, all soused in the contents of a bottle of cheap red wine.

After nearly two weeks of travel, stew classified as a royal feast for him. Thankfully, he'd been able to resupply in the village of Lothering, for his supplies had been nearly depleted. Araris hadn't been sure if avoiding the village would've been better, but in the end the prosaic need for a decent hot meal and the prospect of an actually warm bed won.

Full ladle guided to his waiting mouth, Araris tasted a bite of his stew. Deeming it ready, he grabbed a wooden bowl, another new tool he acquired in Lothering, and filled it to brim with steaming stew. Then, he feasted royally.

Afterwards, he cleaned the bowl at a nearby stream, before he got his wooden pipe, stuffed it with Antivan weed and lit it. Leaning his tied bed roll against the boulder, he sprawled out in front of the fire, head resting easily against his make-shift pillow.

For a time his mind drifted off, befuddled and hazy, occupied with the task of simply blowing smoke rings into the air, watching them under heavy eyelids.

Till his faithful Orlesian mare nickered in response to the rustle of undergrowth nearby. Araris jumped up quickly, head swirling considerably from the pipe weed. But ingrained muscle memory couldn't be toppled by a bit of pipe weed.

The young nobleman lunged for his scabbarded longsword, resting in the grass beside him, and drew it. He discarded the sheath back onto the ground, clutching his weapon in a two-handed grip.

'Show yourself!' Spoke he to the shadows.

And the shadows answered. 'I mean no harm, good man.' They sounded appeasing.

Then, the shadows parted and into the hearth's light stepped a man. Clad in worn mail and scratched plate armour, a shield shouldered and a sword sheathed at his hip. Palms open, he held his hands out to his sides, clear to see.

'I am Ser Stanley of Redcliffe,' the middle-aged man introduced himself.

Araris lowered his sword, though he didn't sheath it.

'And what, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, do you seek at my fire?'

'Only a place to rest. With company and food if you're willing to give it. I am not very apt at . . . well, survival outside society.'

Araris looked the polite knight over. _Could be worse._

'I welcome you then, Ser Stanley of Redcliffe. Eat and drive the chill from your bones at my fire.' Araris sheathed his sword and sat down on the boulder again, still alert.

'Many thanks and may the Maker's light continue to shine upon you.'

_Of course, may he._

Opposite him, Ser Stanley set aside his iron shield on the ground. And, indeed, there was the heraldry of Redcliffe painted onto it. Which did not mean that much by itself, he could've looted it from a fresh corpse.

Opening his leather belt, wrapped around his hips, the Redcliffe knight removed his sheathed sword and discarded it beside his shield.

Trusting the man far enough not to try to kill him, Araris rummaged inside his saddlebag for the wooden bowl. Found, he held it out for Ser Stanley to grab. The knight did so and nodded his thanks, before pausing.

After a while he asked, 'how should I call you, good ser?'

Araris used what few heartbeats of time remained, before the question would pass over into awkward silence, to think. Obviously, he couldn't introduce himself as who he really was, the son of a teyrn. And as some believed, that of a traitor. Unable to gauge the opposite person's opinion after such a short time, assuming the persona of a knight would do fine.

It would allow him to explain many of the things he owned, which many peasant people couldn't. But most of all, he'd be able to explain the possession of an Orlesian horse of fine breed without soliciting too many raised eyebrows.

'I am Ser Araris . . . of Highever,' Araris answered.

The Redcliffe knight smiled slightly at him in response. 'Well met, Ser Araris of Highever.'

A though crossed Araris' mind. _Maybe he hasn't heard about what happened at Highever._

Ser Stanley filled the wooden bowl with the remnants of Araris' stew and began to eat. His features lit up somewhat, possible at the certainty of hot food filling his growling stomach.

Once the knight finished his meal, looking content and overly satisfied, Araris asked him a question that had gnawed at him for a while.

'Would you tell me, Ser Stanley, what are you doing out here?'

'Ah, you see, my arl has been taken by a mysterious sickness. The arlessa, Maker bless her and her son, sent many of us knights out to search for a cure.'

'Forgive me, but how would knights know a cure for a sickness they do not even understand.'

'It's true, knights wouldn't know much about leechcraft.' With a croak of metal plate's shifting against each other, Ser Stanley scratched his neck. 'But the arlessa sent us out to search for healers, if need be even apostates, for the Circle of Magi's templars wouldn't permit us the help of mages.'

He hesitated shortly in his narration.

'Yet, most of us, were sent to find a certain brother of the Chantry. Genetivi he is called.'

Araris frowned. 'I've heard of Brother Genetivi, read some of his work, too. How would he be able to help, he is not healer nor is he able to practise magic of any sorts.'

'True again, good ser. But the brother was on a quest to locate our holy Andraste's resting place. It is said that her ashes cure all illness, and Brother Genetivi allegedly was close to finding it.'

Araris wanted to scratch out his eyes and scream his dismay loud into the night. Somehow, he managed to stay calm, concentrating on simply breathing.

_How could the arlessa? What madness drove the woman to such a ludicrous idea? There'd be no army at Redcliffe. Their armed forces would be scattered to the four winds. Like stray puppies searching for something, the arlessa's own madness burning bright in their eyes._

Araris shook his head, trying to banish his thoughts. They'd only upset him further, if he overthought the situation now. No use for that.

So he asked, 'I take it you journey to Redcliffe, then?'

'Indeed, I do.'

'Perfect, then we shall journey there together, for it is also my destination.'

From under scrunched eyebrows, Ser Stanley peered at him, though not in an impolite way, only with curiosity.

'Is that so, what business brings you there?'

'I have business with Arl Eamon, but after what you just told me, that could prove a bit difficult to achieve.' Araris sighed.

_No other place to go, after all. Something solid, pah!_

.

.

Araris gently led his horse along the reins. Side by side he walked with Ser Stanley of Redcliffe, for the man possessed no mount of his own.

But Araris didn't mind the delay in time they'd spend in travelling to Redcliffe on foot. There was no pressing reason for him to go there now, with the arl sick, that is.

The polite voice of Ser Stanley dragged him out of his dreary thoughts.

'A very beautiful beast you have there, Ser Araris. She caught my eye the moment I laid eyes upon her.'

'Yes, I found her on a trip for my teyrn in Orlais.' Araris caressed the dark mare's neck, twirling its soft mane between his fingers. He smiled in spite of himself. 'I couldn't leave her there. Now could I, Kelpie dear?'

'A fine name for a fine beast, indeed, Ser Araris.' The knight looked Araris' mount over with admiring eyes. 'If there is one thing Orlesians really know about, then it is horses. One has to give them that.'

'True, Ser Stanley.'

They continued on in silence for a few bells' time. Only stopping shortly to eat a few stripes of dried bacon.

When they spotted wreathes of black smoke rise high in the distance, the knight gasped. Never a good sign, that.

'By the Maker, what is happening? That must be coming from the village.'

The Redcliffe knight accelerated his paces, moving with distraught haste. Before too long, he'd be tired out. But Araris made no move to stop the man. Absently, he could relate.

'Maybe one of the buildings caught fire, many of them have hay roofs,' the knight tried to persuade nature around them. He probably didn't convince himself, certainly not Araris, so he must be talking to someone else.

Soon after, the tension in Ser Stanley all but decreased, coming down from the hills they arrived on a ridge overlooking Redcliffe village. No house burned, only small rowboats sailing out onto Lake Calenhad. They'd been set on fire with purpose.

Ser Stanley, peering down on his homestead, looked pale.

Then a man, dressed in common leathers, arrived. A longbow and a quiver with a few arrows peeked over one shoulder. He ran towards them over the stone-cobbled bridge, straddling a rushing river, leading over to a natural intersection. He waved and shouted incomprehensible words at them.

One path of the natural intersection wound up through the cliffs and across an enormously long bridge, which in turn led to an island where the ancient Castle Redcliffe sat perched atop, whilst the second path of the intersection led down into the village, cowering in the shadow of the reddish cliffs above.

Bowed with hands on his knees the peasant caught his breath with ragged gasps.

In between them, 'I knew I saw someone coming,' he pressed out.

Agitation evidently rising up in Ser Stanley at the peasant's continued inability to find neither breath nor voice, Araris put a comforting hand on the smaller man's broad shoulders. Ser Stanley looked at him, then nodded hesitantly in consent.

Finding the ability to do so, the commoner spoke up. 'Have you come to help?' Desperation oozed palpable out of his voice.

It was the Redcliffe knight who answered, his usual politeness absent. 'Help? What's happened?'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I bid you to take a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to._


	5. Memories in Ice

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter V**

**Memories in Ice**

**.**

**.**

Last night had been the worst since it all began.

By now, everyone walked with slumped shoulders and a flat and desperate glaze clouding their eyes. Once precise movements now seemed dull and ineffective. Unusual for families of fishermen and farmers.

Yet, who could blame them. Teagan surely wouldn't.

Every human being would bend and break, sooner rather than later, what with the pressure the whole village had been under for numerous days and nights now.

And last night, Maker fend, they'd lost so many to the rising dead.

With only wavering courage and little to no hope left, many villagers hadn't fought for survival. They'd fought to find peace in death. Throwing themselves into the droves of foul creatures in a last desperate attempt at valour, they'd embraced their fate. And rejoined their loved ones again, at the Maker's side, if He willed it so. Snapping and clawing and yapping creatures that so much resembled friends and loved ones, it was horrifyingly obnoxious. Which made fighting and killing them all the harder.

Every night was beyond dark, whilst days weren't better. Bulging with savage terror as they were. The utmost certainty of knowing that it'd begin anew after dusk viciously mangled what brittle shreds remained of the people's paling hope. And many stayed down, content to resign to their cruel fates, for they saw no other path in front of them. Because of mortal fear, their sight, obscured as it was, couldn't, or wouldn't, pierce the peradventure which lay in front of them.

Truly, a nightmarish gloom trapping them all without mercy.

Afternoon had already arrived, the sun slowly dimming its intense midsummer stare. Shades of burgundy and violet would soon usurp the sky. Thus granting them barely nine full bells' time. For preparation and the drawing up and rebuilding of what sparse and poor defences they could muster. Then, only reverent and faithful prayer to the Maker and His beloved bride for guidance remained as their last resort.

Teagan, too, found himself faltering in his resolve. Every day always a bit more.

He heaved a long, heavy sigh.

'We must get Owen to work again,' the Bann of Rainesfere spoke, 'without proper armaments we'll not survive the night. Metal and leather are our only advantages over those things.'

The knight who had arrived with him in Redcliffe, merely a few days prior, bowed and left to fulfil his futile task. Entirely too few armed men, worth their salt, Teagan had taken with him. But he couldn't leave his own lands unprotected during such times of strife. And who'd been able to anticipate that such abhorrent horrors would await him in Redcliffe village. He sure did not.

With civil war's erratic wrath nearly upon them, this crisis couldn't have befallen them at a more inconvenient time.

The Chantry building's heavy double doors squeaked open, metal hinges and wood protesting beseechingly. Resting on an unadorned wooden armchair at the back of the building, throbbing brow cradled in his worn hand, Teagan looked up at two newcomers, strangers.

A peculiar pair they were.

One looked vaguely familiar, carrying his bearing as a knight fairly obvious. He moved with proficient ease, albeit squeaking steps inside his scratched plate armour. Once Teagan spotted the dented iron shield carrying Redcliffe's coat of arms, he remembered the man's face, from past visits in his brother's castle, though still not his name. A knight of Eamon's personal guard.

The other one, well, there was something about him that prompted recognition to flare up in Teagan's mind like a crumpled piece of paper tossed into the fire. But Teagan was sure he'd remember a young man of such conspicuous height. Of course, there's also the prominent mane of bright hair. Yet, something there was, something he couldn't put his finger on . . . something else.

Plaintively, Teagan rose out of his chair.

'Bann Teagan,' the Redcliff knight bowed at the hip, hands crossed over his chest, 'I greet you. I am Ser Stanley.'

_Right, that's the name. _

Teagan nodded in greeting. 'It is good to see a familiar face, Ser Stanley. Especially during such dire times.'

A serious look covered the knights aged features. 'What exactly has happened here, Bann Teagan? We weren't told much.'

Teagan pinched his nose. 'I shall tell you then, but first – who is your companion, Ser Stanley?'

The knight's posture stiffen a bit, eyes widening ever so slightly. 'Ah, how rude of me.' Ser Stanley scratched the growing bristle on his chiselled chin. 'Bann Teagan, this is Ser Araris of Highever. I met him on the road, thankfully he was kind enough to share his food and fire with me.'

The bann looked up at the young man, for he indeed had to. At least half a head taller towered he, if not more. 'I would welcome you with joy, Ser Araris of Highever, if I could.' Teagan squinted at the younger man. 'Tell me, have we met, there is something about you that seems awfully familiar.'

'I don't believe we have, my lord. This is my first time in Redcliffe, I travelled here seeking audience with Arl Eamon, but Ser Stanley here already informed me of his tragic condition.'

To try and gauge the young knight's current thoughts and emotions was like trying to guess what a statue mulled about. Forever carved in stone, gazing upon the same vista every day.

'Alas, sadly that's the truth.' Hands behind his back, the bann began to pace. 'Though even I know nothing about the circumstances surrounding it. In actuality, I journeyed here in response to my brother's sudden illness.' Teagan shook his head, an aching tightness in his chest. 'Once I arrived I found the village in very much the same state as you see it now. Every night anew, foul and evil things come forth from the castle and attack without mercy.'

Stopping his frantic pacing, Teagan closed his eyes and breathed out through flaring nostrils. Gathering himself, Teagan looked at Ser Araris of Highever, scrutinising his face closely.

'A question if you allow, ser?' At the young knight's nod, Teagan continued, 'If you knew of my brother, the arl, and his illness and, further, his current . . . unavailability, why did you still come here?'

Ser Araris of Highever lowered his eyes shortly and a flicker of something crossed his features. Teagan knew not what exactly, though it seemed to haunt the younger man. A clenched jaw here and a slight wince there.

'I feared,' as he spoke, he did so with uncertainty, 'that you hadn't heard the news.'

In response Teagan had to frown, unsure of what exactly the knight talked about. 'I do not understand. You speak of the Blight? Or the civil war?'

_What else of matter is there to know these days?_

'Alas, it is neither. True, to the south the Blight's dreadful pestilence and shadow spreads quickly. And, yes, the east is ravaged by turmoil and civil war. Yet, what I speak about happened in the north.'

Ser Araris of Highever's voice broke at the end. As quick as it happened – which brought a surprised look to Ser Stanley's face – it ended again, and the young knight continued on.

'The north is ruled by vile treachery. Highever has fallen, Bann Teagan, at Arl Howe's hands.'

Teagan slumped back into his armchair, suddenly feeling utterly deflated. _This is bad, indeed. Worse than bad, much worse. The one family that could have openly opposed Loghain._ Desperate to grab something, he ruffled through his hair.

He grasped for straws, however thin. 'What of the Couslands?'

Ser Araris of Highever answered, eyes dull and far away, 'Dead.'

_No. It cannot, mustn't be. One of Ferelden's eldest bloodlines, simply . . . gone._

'Andraste guide us.'

**.**

**.**

As soon as the bann had finished filling them in on Redcliffe Village's desperate situation, Araris had to leave the Chantry building with panicked haste. Even those few words about Highever and his family brought him to the brink of hyperventilation. Araris had heard the flicker of vengeful fire and wrenching screams, carried over the calm sea again. He felt as if he would suffocate inside the Chantry's thick cobblestone walls, all the huddling people surrounding him with their lost gaze, closing him in. Pressuring until there was nothing left of his being other than tiny crumbles.

And he had to maintain control. Always. Otherwise he was unsure what would happen.

_Focus. Focus on that dark pit deep inside of your soul. Focus on its stillness. Focus on its chilly touch, calming your nerves. Know it. Reach it. Grab it. Remember it. Memorise it. Be it! _

She'd told him this once. It seemed a lifetime ago, yet wasn't.

And as he hastily passed the mass of villagers, doing whatever villagers were doing in times of war, or something akin to it – which this probably classified as such for them – Araris' raging mind registered none of their activities.

Harsh and dismissively he flung open the door of a solitary and abandoned building, near the lake. Limbs weighting heavy and feeling numb, Araris propped down on the wooden flooring, back pressed against a low counter.

Knees drawn up, arms crossed above them with his head resting inside, he slowly found it. That chilly crevasse, so deep down that only gloom existed, pure dark. It beckoned him, welcomed him with its soothing temperature, stilling his thoughts and emotions, freezing them solid. He crawled into the crevasse and stayed there for a while, content and utterly motionless.

He remembered the bann's earlier words. Vivisecting every word that had been said and analysing it in detail, like some mad hermit hunched over a poor animal studying the inner workings of its body, simply out of scientific curiosity. Or boredom.

'The people are losing hope.' The bann had spoken. A truth, and a painful one at that. Soldiers, no matter how well – in this case not at all – trained, without a spark of hope they'd lose their spirit. To fight and to live.

To Araris' ears, the bann had sounded as if the same could be said about him. Wary and slowly filled with dread, like a wooden barrel continuously filled with red wine from a larger one. The dark bags thick under his eyes like a heavy coat of kohl and shoulders slumped by a miniscule amount more than seemed normal for the man.

Araris felt beaten, too.

Though not because of the reappearance of Highever's haunting spectres. Momentarily, those memories were frozen shut, far beyond reach and hidden deep.

No, rather because of his current situation. Not particularly because of the village being under attack by a dark, evil force nor because of the suffering of all the people around him, with their red-rimmed eyes and snuffy noses.

Araris had expected to arrive in Redcliffe, under the guise of a simple messenger, and exchange pleasantries and words with Arl Eamon. Before revealing his true identity and dancing the dance of politics and intrigue and half-truths with the elderly man, which Eamon was rumoured to love so much. And was no doubt apt at navigating through these murky waters, even in such strife-torn times. Though Araris himself couldn't be described as a novice either.

Yet none of that was to be granted by fate. Oh, cruel fate. It seemed to taunt and mock him. Hunched in patience until he snapped to deliver the final blow, the blow that would end it all, leaving him with nothing but a yawning abyss ready to swallow him. Then he, too, would only be a memory in ice.

Hidden in gloomy depths, were no creature of Thedas could hope to see.

Slowly melting into oblivion, fading from memory.

Instead fate had granted him another place of misery and death. Not an armed force strong enough to stand up against Howe and Loghain and fight to clear his family's befuddled name. Not a single knight would follow him out of Redcliffe village. Of course, that would imply his leaving alive.

Instead of hope and a prospect for the future, fate had granted him the exact opposite. A place devoid of hope and future, maybe even bereft of watching the sun rise one more time.

Nothing would come of him staying and defending the village. Only the cost of his life as a near certainty. He should just saddle up and ride far away, maybe travel back to Antiva, things had looked brighter there. In Antiva and the past.

Yet, why then had he told Bann Teagan, 'My sword is yours, my lord.'

Severe mental illness or a peculiar feverish decease came first to mind, shortly followed by a fit of masochistic madness. Or maybe – and the though hit him harder than he would've ever expected – he simply had lost hope. Like all the other peasant people, with only a wish for salvation left. Salvation in death.

He felt the ice crack. Fissures broke open like a giant spider's web.

The decrepit building's door banged open hard, against the brick wall. Admitting a dishevelled lass, eyes rimmed with redness and flowing tears, nose snottily and her cupid's bow glistening with nasal fluids.

Araris tried to keep his memories from bursting free in violence with all his strength. He stopped his attempts in satisfaction, only after a towering glacier embraced them in a crushing hug.

'Bevin!' cried the lass, eyes shut, leaning into the room whilst her arms clutched the doorframe.

Newfound and irritating stimulation tugged at the back of Araris' skull. He could feel her emotions and the whispers of her thoughts, she oozed them so palpably he could feel them caressing his skin with a lover's gentle touch, taste them like a spiced meal hot on his tongue, breathe them in like a long, languorous taste from his pipe on a midsummer eve.

_Despair._

_Loss._

_Failure._

_Fear._

A voice whispered to him. The same inner voice that urged him to feed on the emotions of this untouched and innocent lass and nourish his strength on her despair and fear. Oh, how sweet it would taste, even a single bite, a lone touch, a curious sniff.

Araris shook his head, before he stood and faced the girl.

'Who is it you are searching for, lass?'

'Bevin, my brother,' she sniffled.

Araris Cousland bid her in with a gesture of his hand. As she closed the door behind her with a thump, Araris took the building's room in for the first time. It seemed to have been a general store. Once upon a time, at least. Certainly not now, with dust and webs covering everything, while rust crawled up all made out of metal.

After spotting a few closed barrels, Araris threw a look at the meek girl. She hadn't even taken more than a few paces into the room.

'What's your name?' The lass looked ready to balk at a moment's notice back out the door.

Head low, her eyes darted up only for a heartbeat, gazing at him, before they travelled down to the rotting wood flooring again.

'Kaitlyn,' she peeped.

Turning his back to her, Araris unsheathed his curved dagger and broke open a barrel's lid with the blade's tip, checking its contents with curiosity.

_My, my. What have we here? Might this be a spark, bright enough to ignite the fires of hope? Or merely a procrastination of the inevitable?_

Satisfied he turned back towards Kaitlyn, who'd cowered back a bit at the sight of his pale dagger, thus he sheathed the weapon at the back of his belt again.

As he slowly - and as non-threatening as possible - walked towards her and laid a reassuring hand on her slim, heaving shoulder, she only flinched slightly. It brought a rare smile to his face, even though he felt his reassurance empty and hollow.

'Then let's find your brother, shall we?'

She nodded, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

**.**

**.**

Light was scarce. The sun had nearly withdrawn its own gentle caress. Redcliffe Village was already devoid of direct natural light, shielded from it by the towering, reddish cliffs on one side and the lone, eerily silent castle on the other.

Soon the sun would've set and night would be upon them. Then nothing could prevent the foul evil the creep forth from its hiding place by day. The night would not protect Redcliffe Village from the rising corpses. It would be like an open invitation to a grand feast.

At least, the simple fishers and farmers and Teagan himself had thought so, not a few bells ago. But, thankfully, things had changed considerably. Their prayers had been heard and the Maker's answer had arrived in the form of a single, young knight. A man of charisma and absolute faith, in himself and a force of good existing in this world. A knight from Highever, who managed to instil a small spark of hope back into the people's hearts.

Even now, after talking to several bystanders during the time, Teagan was none the wiser how, by the Abyss, Ser Araris of Highever had persuaded the local blacksmith, Owen, to return to his handicraft. Repairing worn and broken chainmail, bended and split plate armour and patch up holes in leather harnesses so they'd be of use once more.

Teagan had no clue what Ser Araris' words had been to the drunken and grief-stricken blacksmith – whose daughter had worked at the castle when the dead first arose – to remind the man of his duties to those who still walked among the living.

Trekking up the steep slope and crossing the small bridge spanning the roaring waterfall which split Redcliffe's renowned reddish cliffs, the bann gazed down on the village.

He stopped, as so unexpected and foreign did the hustle and bustle of feverishly working people strike him. So at odds with all previous days. There was vigour and precision back in their movements, as they still set up more barricades and blocked muddy streets with furniture and wooden planks and rough blocks of stone, before setting them aflame.

Oh, how Teagan had wanted to kiss the Highever knight a thousand fold, when he came to him with news about half a dozen barrels filled to brim with lamp oil.

They'd found their weapon. Fire to conquer the dark of night.

Bann Teagan arrived at the top of the slope, to the right the mill perched idly on the cliff's edge, overlooking the village and Lake Calenhad below. No creaking and protesting of rotating and chafing wood could be perceived, for the mill stood still, not spinning softly with the evening's gentle breeze.

On a platform, built around the mill, protruding over the cliff's abrupt edge, stood Ser Araris of Highever, still huddled in his dark woollen cloak. Its mangled and dirtied hem, brushed over the wooden panelling of the platform, moving softly with the occasional breeze. His prominent bright mane caught the last rays of sunshine in a magnificent golden radiance. It reminded Teagan a bit of his late nephew, thought his hair had had a bit more of a brownish tint to it. Slung diagonally across his long back was his scabbarded longsword, its pommel flashing in brightness.

Teagan joined the young knight on the platform, and, for a time, stood silently beside him, embracing the sun's last warmth for today. Yet, somehow, at the prospect of the sun's setting, Teagan did feel tentative hopefulness instead of dread and almost paralysing fear.

All because of the man next to him.

'Thank you.' Teagan tried to put his emotions into words, yet felt that he failed miserably at it. Feverishly he search for something more to say, though the words eluded him.

Serene, Ser Araris' bright gaze wandered, fixating him. 'My lord?'

'You gave the people back their hope. And I cannot thank you enough for that.' Teagan had to swallow, trying to banish an itching tightness from his throat. 'Even restored mine.'

Ser Araris steered his gaze back down to the village. The young Highever knight shook his head, whilst a blank and far-away look clouded his eyes.

'No, bann, in that you are wrong.'

Teagan frowned at the man, lines forming between his eyebrows. 'How so?'

'The people reclaimed hope on their own volition. I simply gave the means to, uh, relight it.'

Ser Araris paused in his speech, seemingly registering for the first time that he had actually spoken. He glanced towards the dark violet sky and exhaled a long breath.

'Everyone has to find hope and prospect for themselves, Bann Teagan.'

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


	6. Chains of Civilisation

_Story note:_

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so. _

_Please forgive me if you find any mistakes, I haven't had the time to read over this chapter as much as I'd hoped too. Furthermore excuse me for uploading this chapter only now, I'd planned to upload it two days ago, yet with work and upcoming exams time is currently sparse for me. _

_Nonetheless, please enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter VI**

**Chains of Civilisation**

**.**

**.**

_The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace._

Over the course of the last few days and weeks her faith in her liege lord and her kingdom may have wavered, but it never truly faltered, never broke. There was never a single moment where her heart couldn't bear what had to be done at Ostagar and crumbled under her responsibilities. Ser Cauthrien remain steadfast, at all times. She had to, for without loyalty, what was there left in this world of disloyalty and cruel backstabbing.

And her just reward seemed to have been delivered by the Maker himself. It reassured her in her faith.

Today, her heart pounded proud with loyalty and love for both Ferelden and Teyrn Loghain. For he had bestowed upon her an honour beyond measure – a quite unexpected one, too. Never in her life had she dared to even dream about this. Her, a mere common woman, who not entirely too long ago, looked forward to a simple life of farming. Though now, it seemed a lifetime ago. Longer, even.

She could still feel the ceremonial sword's light blade's touch as it rested on her shoulder as the inaugurating words had been spoken for all to hear. Denerim's Chantry filled to brim with people from all over the city, visiting the liturgy for prayer and consonance.

Ser Cauthrien had been presented with the signature coat of arms, embroidered onto a pristine white cloak. As Ser Cauthrien kneeled, a chantry sister had attached it onto her armour pauldrons with a clink of iron rings.

From this day forth, until the end of her days she would serve Ferelden and its rulers with absolute loyalty and complete devotion. She would protect their lives, even at the cost of her own. Her loyalty wouldn't waver in the slightest, the duty bestowed upon her carried out to the absolute and without question or hesitation. Married to the kingdom she loved, only death could part her, and she would fight its ravaging breath with every fibre of her being.

Thus it means to be the King's Blade. Ferelden's finest man or woman possessing an inborn martial skill, unparalleled and fit for tales of legends going round the fires. In that regard she surely had earned that title. Even though her keenness it tactics and matters of military might be a tad underdeveloped. There'd only been two who could've ever claimed to be her better with either. One recently lost his life at Ostagar, the honourable Ser Elric Maraigne and a kind of mentor to her. The knight had done his duty and proudly gave his life for King Cailan. The other had long ago vanished, victim to only himself.

Yet, her heart ached at the thought of the elderly knight – and fatherly figure too, to her. She would make Ser Maraigne gasp, overwhelmed by the feeling of proudness for her.

With her undeniable and implicit loyalty.

With her unwavering and fierce courage.

With her peerless and sublime aptitude as a swordswoman of Ferelden.

With all her heart she would make him proud of her deeds.

Even with him standing guard at the Maker's city's gates, separated from her side in an entirely alien dimension of existence. Yet, not even the Fade would stop her of the task she'd set upon herself. His heart would burst with proudness at her deeds.

She had faith, unshaken by the surrounding and impenetrable darkness.

Previously, Ser Cauthrien had though herself blind, for with all the dark and evil surrounding her these days she hadn't seen clearly. Hadn't understood.

Yet, now, she finally did.

Not seeing was a gift of those who truly saw.

Her gaze penetrated the darkness of deceit and madness and greed and hatred and anger and disloyalty, her vision clear she beheld the oneiric image that was true peace.

Her _destination_.

Reached with clear vision and steadfast loyalty.

Her march began.

**.**

**.**

His fist descended like that of an angered god. And the world trembled and shook, cowering in fear of his wrath. Vials filled with tint and wax, goblets and carafes filled with wine and water tumbled and fell, shattered. The teyrn's table descended into chaotic anarchy.

The King's Blade watched. Cauthrien stood behind her liege lord, in one corner of the room, calmed by the surrounding gloom. The hearth's fire, flickering, could not reach her where she stood guard. Sword loosened in its scabbard, ready to spring free at a moment's notice, should the dire need arise.

Her eyes never left the weasely man opposite the table.

Loghain's hands balled into fists, he roared, 'Why must I deal with such incompetence?'

More good men of Ferelden had lost their lives. Thus was the brutal truth of civil war. Every day it claimed more, a tidal wave, unstoppable. Until they'd mass in the hundreds, the thousands and hundreds of thousands. All dead, for Ferelden's sake. Brothers and sisters, fellow men now spilled their blood. And they did so with a fervour, burning bright in its zeal. It was only to be expected for many to lay down their lives. A logical conclusion, and her lord knew.

Why, then, incompetence, one might ask, rhetorically? Teyrn Loghain's troops were well trained and fresh, not battered and bled dry by Ostagar. His officers were schooled in many devious parts and acts of warfare. Yet, they still suffered defeat after defeat against the mottled bands of worn soldiery rising up in rebellion. All over the Bannorn, separated. Which deserved a thankful prayer to the Maker. Most could be put down quickly enough. A brutal show of hacking and slashing swords with overwhelming force, most traitors scattered, noose bleeding heavily.

Yet, particularly Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna proved to be a most vicious thorn in Ferelden's flank. The rest not overly much.

Where the Bannorn and all its countless lords to stand united, they'd pose a threat to even the combined forces of both of Ferelden's teyrinrs.

Andraste's blessed touch, then, to thank for in equal measures, that such an amalgamation was unheard of, and, thus, nigh improbable to ever happen.

For that the Bannorn's nobility despised each other too much. And loved their bickering amongst themselves equally.

The weasely man, which Ser Cauthrien not once took her eyes off, for she did not trust Highever's new teyrn, opened his mouth in answer to the king-regent's rhetorical question. He shouldn't have.

Savagely, Loghain's hand scythed through air, cutting of Teyrn Howe's speech in its very tracks.

Ser Cauthrien did not trust the man. She'd never took much interest in politics. Not her forte, after all. And she could care less for all the rumours spewing around taverns and inns and wherever else throngs of people amassed, it spread like a cancerous disease. Not once had she put much on whispers and rumours and half-truths. No need to start now. Yet, neither was the cause for her mistrust of the man.

It had taken only one searching look. His eyes had given her all she needed to know. Teyrn Howe hid nothing.

When he first strode into Teyrn Loghain's chambers. His features hawkish and lit up in false humility. His crooked nose and the flat and lifeless eyes peering over them, always searching for prey. Ever more prey. She locked gazes with a murderer's eyes that day, this much had been clear.

Probably even more to her liege lord.

Rendon Howe was a man utterly consumed by the sharp knife that was greed, only sheathed in his flaring ambition. It consumed his insides like a raging fire, devouring everything that would block its path. And what a ruthless and arbitrary path it was. It cared not for what lay ahead, it cared only about hindrances and obstacles, nuisances one and all to its all-consuming hatred.

The fire would stop at nothing until it had burned the world. Thus, Teyrn Howe had long ago sealed his own fate. A fate of devouring fire, swallowing him whole when the time arrived, leaving nothing but ash of the man. And at the rate with which it burned and cackled and flickered and howled, his ambitions would soon be met by cold iron. Taking away fire's life with one gentle slash across his throat. Cauthrien saw as much, clear, without doubts.

Yet, the man was a most useful tool. His legions of armed forces were larger than Loghain's, if one counted the various mercenary companies he had hired with his newly acquired wealth. Spoils of war and slaughter, given freely by traitors and their heaps of gold. A most noble family, the Couslands, after their rightful sentence they sought penance in death by helping Ferelden. A most honourable legacy, Cauthrien surmised, not that they'd ever be thanked for that. Traitors, after all, never were. The dead gave Ferelden an army. And, in serving Ferelden through Loghain's guiding hands, Rendon Howe could, too, repent what little was left of his blackened patch of a soul. In the end, the Maker would judge. As he did with all.

'I've had enough of this charade,' the king-regent turned his head towards her. She stepped from the shadows, ready to serve. 'King's Blade, you will take three thousand armed men and quench this rebellion. Put the Bannorn to the torches if you have to. Leave none of these Orlesian sympathisers alive.'

'Your will, my hands, king-regent.' Cauthrien bowed and stepped back into the shadows.

Rendon Howe perked up, appearing meek and humble, even though he wasn't fooling anyone. Probably not even himself. His continuous play proved to be most tiring.

'An offer of help, if you permit, my lord,' he said, eyes cast down.

Loghain sat back down into his high-backed armchair, gesturing for the man to offer his proposal of help.

'I've recently, uh, acquired the services of a renowned mercenary company. It is said they're very apt at snuffing out traitors without remorse, for they despise treachery.'

At Teyrn Howe's sign, the two guards on the room's opposite ends opened the double door. Admitting an inhumanly tall woman, a beast. She walked with an ease and a predatory gait that belied her stature.

Her skin wore the sickly colour of dark ash. Outdone by the silvery flow of her long, braided hair. It sprouted between two delicate horns appearing out of her forehead like gnarled roots reaching back over her head. Golden hued metal spikes and other peculiar shapes pierced her straight nose's nostrils and her dagger-like ears and her full bottom lip. Two strips of red dyed cloth, crossing over her sternum, covered up her ample breasts. Whilst beneath, her slim and lean belly lay bare. From the waist down the female qunari was covered in tightly trimmed and form hugging leather leggings, darker than her skin, with calf-high riding boots to match. Sheathed at both hips were two fragile looking scimitars, their one-edged, thin blades straight. Too, affixed on the belt holding both scabbards, was a plain half-mask. White porcelain, undecorated, only nine blood-red marks covered the mask. If donned it would cover the upper half of her face, only two slits where her eyes would be. Other than that it possessed no features.

Muscled arms crossed over her chest, she stood defiant in the presence of strangers.

Teyrn Howe spoke up, a sneer on his face, 'Couldn't you find a more savage attire, creature?'

The qunari woman peered at him, a bland look covering her face. She shrugged.

'You paid for my services, nothing more, human.'

Loghain snorted a bitter laugh, silencing any forthcoming retort from Howe. I like this one, it said.

'Very well,' said Loghain, after looking her over with critical eyes, 'how shall we address you?'

'Isala'k will suffice.'

'Fine. Isala'k, your company shall march with the King's Blade. Be ready to march, come the next dawn.'

**.**

**.**

Oh, the irony. They'd never understand, with their clouded minds and whatnot. Pah, and how she despised traitors. But, oh the sweet irony, it tasted bitter on her tongue.

They called her savage. A beast to be tamed. And they thought they'd did just that. What a pitiful delusion. Well, her it suited. Just fine, it did.

Let all those humans with their mounds of gold and their crowns, perched atop their heads by themselves and no one else, think whatever they wanted to. With all their useless inventions and rights and rules.

Let them float in blissful ignorance. They think gold and coin can buy them everything. Even her and her company of outcasts.

Let them keep their beliefs. However erroneous. Who was she to care?

Humans. A civilised people. Pah, even the thought made her snort in contempt. Humans, with all their self-proclaimed rights, which suited only them and no one else. Their bended sense of justice. Wherever she looked there was no justice to her eyes. Not in the cities, nor in the lands beyond. Not even in these people's minds did she perceive a notion of justice.

The rich and wealthy ruled over the poor peasantry, always a tyrannical sceptre ready to swing down with bone crushing force should their will not be met to the latter.

The peasants died of sickness and violence everywhere, and even their own just looked on. As if there didn't lie a mauled carcass in the streets, the stray dogs already feeding in delight.

And the lords and ladies of this civilised world were just that. Stray dogs, believing their wealth to be a privilege to rule and dictate. They fed on the hapless without second thought. After all, there were endless rows of poor people and elven servants to be found. All ready to cower beneath wealth's heel.

For wealth was power to these people.

Wealth brought innovations and advance, a step into the future. Bright with new marvels to be discovered. New places to be found. Ancient mysteries to be unravelled. Truths laid bare. All when it suited them.

A civilised world. What else would it be for if not for all people to work together, forming a just society? The rulers wielding land and wealth like a deadly weapon, pointing it at their target, ready to pierce flesh and bone, whilst everyone else drove the weapon deep down, slicing the heart open. In vain hoping to one day ascend into the ranks of these illustrious and civilised people, able to give directions of his or her own.

Thus they marched together, endless rows, stumbling on. Mindless and witless, in hatred and contempt and fear they stumbled on and ever on. They were chained, and proudly called it freedom.

With all their golden and silver coins these privileged thought it their right to believe their voice to be truth, absolute. Yet, what they forgot was a simple truth. A meagre thought, so shattering in its simplicity.

Without the poor, the peasants, the slaves, none of this would've ever been achieved. Gold did achieve nothing of this. Only those who followed. They achieved, paved the way.

Alas, they, too, forgot that simple truth.

And so they followed. The rivers of gold, raking trough civilisation like poisonous serpents.

They followed to where awaited rights that would diminish their self, to where rules had to be followed that would rob them of their rights and chain them to debt and servitude and slavery. What a just and civilised world.

What, then, was left that could define civilisation, oh grand civilisation? Nothing but useless inventions. For that was all gold could buy, all it ever would. Inventions, things no one truly needed. Only greed and envy proclaimed these things are things to be had.

Utterly useless, but, to minds twisted by insanity and madness, they meant status.

So, she came to her conclusion, civilisation was, then, there at the very end of the golden serpent the mother of uselessness. For nothing else was born out of this grand concept that human scholars and rulers waved, every day anew, like an ornate banner tugged by winds on a field of death and dying and bloodshed. A thing she knew well, by trade.

They though civilisation their superiority over her and her people, the savage beasts. They were woefully wrong.

If the arishok had wanted, then Thedas would've been conquered by now, breaking the pathetic bonds of civilisation. Yet, he did not. And every qunari understood his reasons. They knew from the day they were born.

He could've sent the Isala'k, and no walled of city, no however well trained army, no civilisation could've stood between the qunari and victory.

Yet, at the same time, it would've been their defeat. For victory against mankind, the arishok would've to sacrifice his own people and much more. She hadn't always understood that, alas.

But now, Farah'an, saw clear enough. She had fought and bled with her brothers and sisters. Without the Isala'k, the qunari would fall. Another simple truth. And for that simple truth every one of them was granted a name. Which, to the qunari meant honour beyond measure.

Let them think what they want, in their ignorance. Let them think to be the very centre of the world. The constant subject of talk among all their gods.

Let them think they were the qunari's true enemy.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


	7. Dread of Night

_Story note:_

_I want to thank all of you who are reading, following, favouring and reviewing my story. Your support keeps me going._

_In respone's to one guest's review: I do not intend for this story to heavily feature romance. I'm not even sure if there'll be any, at all. Because I simply think that writing romance isn't my thing and that I'm terrible at it. But I haven't settled on anything, really. Might be or not. What I can say for sure is this: do not expect to read steamy or arousing scenes in this story of mine. It might be that you'll read about implications of romance (like with Isabela), but nothing more. So, alas, if you came here in search of such a thing, and such a thing only, then it'd be best to turn around now. Thank you for understanding._

_Dragon Age is property of Bioware. Original characters are mine, and are to be treated as such. If you want to adopt some of my AU changes to your own story, then, please, do so._

_There you have it: the battle at Redcliffe Village. AU version. Please be aware that this chapter will contain graphic violence. And will not shy away from it. If you're averse to such a thing, click that red little button up there to the right. In the corner, the one with the X. But this story is rated M, so something along these lines is to be expected from time to time anyway._

_Please, enjoy._

**.**

**.**

**In An Age Full Of Heroes**

**Chapter VII**

**Dread of Night**

**.**

**.**

Night had settled.

The full, silvery moon rode hard the wheel of time. Galloping by glittering stars, alas, not hard enough. Light's mere reflection on a huge piece of barren rock wouldn't suffice. No it wouldn't, only a star's direct light, flaring and bright and full of life, gazing down with an intense stare could hope to prevail against the dark of night. It could never hope to be victorious, but it would prevail.

None of both could ever hope to overthrow the other, by nature's own necessity. In the absence of light there was dark, but without light the very concept of darkness wouldn't exist. In turn, there could be no light without the notion of dark. And wherever the two warred, their struggle ceaseless, mother dark and father light begat their child, shadow.

What a sad triumvirate, ever fighting for dominance, yet also wholly dependent on each other.

Nonetheless, Araris currently truly felt the craving need of all those people around him, restless and frightened. It tasted bitter on his tongue. They reeked of unease and fear and, somewhere swirling between these two layers, of impending cowardice.

They craved for day. All of them. Even those who stood looking straight ahead in defiance, ready to spit into night's face. Apathetic of the consequences.

But the last living member of the Cousland bloodline couldn't really blame them. He only welcomed dark's chilly cajolery because it could grant him what he sought, what he wished for, what he truly _craved_ for.

A sickly green mist rose in front of Castle Redcliffe's massive gate, now no longer barred, whereas it'd been at day. _So there must exist some semblance of intelligence inside. Enough to open doors. Not necessarily human, though._

It wreathed and contorted itself spasmodically across the long, ancient bridge. Soon, the nauseating stench reached them, even far away as they were by the silent wind mill, overlooking the gloomy village below. The reek of desiccated and decaying flesh, of festering and burnt wounds made Araris' nostrils flare in disgust.

The dwarven mercenary nonchalantly leaning onto his double-edge battle axe, lured to this burgeoning battle only by the prospect of Teagan's pouch and a share of the gold coins clinking inside, turned sideways and spat phlegm on the ground. Mucous bits clung to his braided beard.

'Sodding Stone,' he proclaimed for all to hear, 'this smells worse than my Ancestors' hoary balls! Which is sayin' something.'

His two human companions, the upper half of their grim faces painted with ash, snorted at that, mad grins on their faces. Each of them cradled a heavy crossbow with affection. Whilst the two formations of Redcliffe knights and militiamen shuffling sullenly rang in the oppressing silence afterwards.

Nothing moved, nothing sounded. No crickets chirped, no birds flapped through the air, not even a gentle breeze caressed the tufts of meagre grass around them. Even nature held its breath at the approaching undead. And approach they did.

Araris took the moment and faced inwards, listening to his heart beating. Still steady, controlled, not frantic. Soon to change, he was sure of that much, if nothing else.

He'd left his travelling cloak behind in the Chantry, it would only be a hindrance in the imminent battle. The local blacksmith had been so kind as to outfit him with a more appropriate attire. A hardened leather cuirass tightly hugged his torso, padded with framed pieces of overlapping chainmail protecting his shoulders. Lean forearms protected by studded leather gauntlets, of which he once again checked the fastening straps. Araris tugged at the leather belt, holding his sheathed longsword, slung across his back, in place. The sword loosened, ready to spring into his eager hands at an eye blink's notice.

In front of them all waited sporadic rows of tapered spears of thick wood, facing towards the gentle slope leading to the bridge. A hastily set up barricade, covered in sticky and foul smelling lamp oil. The flame to be lit in the darkest of moments.

The sickly green mist appeared at the upper edge of the slope, foreboding and ominous, yet not the dreaded shuffling corpses. Not yet, anyway. Even fouler than before smelled the very air, reeking of death. All life and prosperity absent in its ghostly presence.

This night, Araris knew, would come to be a night of frightening loneliness. None of the here gathered would find comfort or shelter in camaraderie. He hadn't told this anyone.

The Redcliff knights, Ser Stanley among them with shield and sword in hand, guarded by their adamant belief, clung to the Maker's mercy and divine protection. He would not stand with them this night. No god would. Not the Maker, nor his ascendant bride, Andraste, at his side. They might welcome the fallen of faith with arms spread in warm embrace, there at the very steps of their blackened city. But they would not split the sky in lightening and thunder to descend among mere mortals. The dwarven Stone and all its ancestors held no power here, above on the surface, with the yawning sky soaring high over their heads, ready to swallow them. Even if they were inclined to do so, the Elder pantheon, the elven gods and goddesses had left this mortal realm long ago in resignation. War and conflict in all its misery and strife should stay with mortals for all eternity. Who were they to care? The Old Gods and Goddesses, befouled and corrupt themselves, their souls sickened by irredeemable blackness would only spur what would soon happen here. And the Forgotten Ones, well, they were forgotten for a reason, after all.

No, they stood alone. Simple mortal souls facing their impending doom. No one else.

Military doctrine, ingrained in each and every one of these knights present – and probably in Dwyn, the veteran dwarven mercenary, too - would avail them naught when the droves of corpses, as Teagan had described them, would finally arrive.

Wills would break and formations would scatter. All pretence of order left to rot, somewhere forgotten.

A night of loneliness.

_Do not fall, this night. _Such had been Ser Stanley's last advice for his men.

That was exactly what Araris searched for this night, to welcome it with open arms. _A last chilly embrace, chaining my fate._

And he would ultimately find it, for there, around the corner and down the slope now shuffled and huddled and shambled on the endless hordes of dead. In eerie silence.

_It is begun._

**.**

**.**

Rotting and mouths ridden with blackened tooth agape, silent screams on their peeling lips the creatures' descent quickened to a full out run. Many stumbled over broken and gnarled and malformed legs and fell. Though that didn't stop the horde's overall advance. Without mercy, for they no longer possessed even a notion of what the word meant, the corpses trampled down their own.

The charging undead did not stop for something as meagre as a barricade. They charged the tapered wooden spears, too. Many simply skewered and impaled themselves on them, some slumping down in dismayed defeat, unable to move, they yapped and clawed on nonetheless. Those who fortuitously chose a path that led through, in between tapered stakes, attempted to close the distance of a few paces that stood between them and the living.

The first row, consisting of lightly armoured militiamen, raised their elm longbows, arrows already notched. Hastily, they scrambled around, drawing back their bows' strings, immediately letting go of them. Were the risen dead any more than a few paces away, most shots surely would have been amiss. The militiamen forgot to aim in their abject terror and fear of death.

From behind and above his position, Araris heard as further bowstrings were loosened and the slapping thwacking sound of two heavy crossbows.

Serendipitously, the creatures were already in such close proximity to the poor archers, that accuracy and precision were wholly superfluous.

The first volley of nearly two dozen arrows and quarrels felled the two front rows of undead, their charge briefly halting in its forward surging momentum. All that the wavering row of militiamen managed was another volley of shots, then they surged to the sides, looks of utter horror on their faces and wailing screams loosened on their lips to give voice to their horror.

For snarling in annoyance, the dead, spiked with arrows, rose anew.

A few hapless militiamen weren't fast enough and the undead found their first victims. They were torn apart, bit by gory bit. Unbelievably quick, too. Cloth was torn, flesh rendered apart and stripped from bone, organs laid bare like a delicious feast. They were nothing if not effective, these undead.

Not content with the few famers and fishers they'd managed to catch, the horrid creatures lapped forward like a cool wave rising to attack the dark shore. Yet the shore proved to be a wall consisting of tempered steel and hardened soldiery. The two squads of Redcliffe knights arrayed in wedge formations, shields closed, bit from both sides into the undead like a rabid beast. And once the canines were dug in deep, they didn't let go. In a few heartbeats the two squads had slain dozens of the undead creatures. Swords arched up and fell repeatedly. Slicing off arms and heads, crushing bone underneath and severing desiccated tendons and shrivelled muscle.

Expertly, the two squads had merged and closed rank, presenting a solid shield wall. All the same, a few of the risen dead had managed to break through before the knights had closed their formation. They scrambled towards Araris and the remaining militiamen.

Yet to unsheathe his longsword, Araris tensed in anticipation, waiting for the appropriate moment. A foolish notion, these were no expert swordsmen, but it proved thrilling. A cold smile marred his blue-blooded features. Though, as it quickly turned out, his elation at the prospect of bloodshed was premature.

The dwarven mercenary Dwyn bellowed a maniacal outcry and launched himself into the heat of combat. His double edged battle-axe described a perfect arc over his head. With one vicious slash he scythed open one creature's chest, exposing shrivelled and foul organs and brown and brittle bone underneath. Further two, who chose the unfortunate moment to stand in the heavy weapon's path, were simply sliced in two, vertebrae snapping like twigs. As another undead tried to rip out the dwarf's throat, Dwyn hammered the creature's head aside with the long stock of his weapon. The sudden impact twisted its head so far, the neck broke with a satisfying crunch and the creature slumped down.

At the front, the knights were hard pressed by the continuous onslaught the undead delivered. Slowing wounds and bloody gnashes slowly opened up and covered them all. They would not hold for much longer. A bit of relief arrived by another volley of arrows and quarrels.

The shield wall retreated step by step. Bruises already forming on every one of them, some hobbled back with broken bones. Unrelenting wave after wave clashed with them, scratching and clawing and tearing. Thankfully, so few of the creatures were actually armed with weapons. Though a hammer or a pitchfork could be as equally deadly, as one of the knights just experienced. His iron helmet brutally bashed in on one side, the remains of his face flowed and spurt out beneath the helm's rim as he fell.

Meanwhile, Dwyn had routed the last remaining corpses behind the shield wall, now corpses in truth, he spit on them. Half a dozen militiamen had tried to aid him in his fight, and had paid dearly for that foolishness. Their cooling bodies now covered the stained ground. The rest of them had fled down into the village. Only the two mercenary crossbowmen, Dwyn's associates remained, position above on the wind mill's balcony. They did their best to spick the droves of undead with heavy quarrels, still rushing down the slope.

A though hit Araris' mind, like a fist to the chest.

_Horseshit and virginpiss! The militiamen, they fled._

Araris turned round and ran towards the wind mill. He picked up a discarded elm longbow from the ground. Feverishly, his eyes darted around, searching. Then he found one. A single arrow, probably slid down between sweaty and trembling fingers.

The knights' formation wavered, nearly a dozen paces had they retreated from the stake barricades by now.

Araris tore out a piece of woollen cloth from a nearby human corpse's garments and wrapped it round the arrow's shaft, directly beneath the head. With a quick yank he affixed it in a permanent knot.

Another knight fell, his throat flayed and mangled, the creature who had taken him went down with him, feeding vigorously.

Arrow already notched, Araris held the tip over a torch, clinging to the mill's cylindrical edifice. He waited until the piece of cloth was on fire.

Inhaling deep into the twin caverns of his lungs, he drew the bow string back to his cheek. Aimed up. And released.

The burning arrow flew through the cool night's air like a flickering miniature sun.

It hit the oil-drenched ground around the battered barricades.

The miniature sun extended.

And the world was alight with raging fire. Expunging the cool of night in a single instance. Barrels filled to brim with lamp-oil suddenly exploded. The shockwave send the undead creatures scattering in every direction, some were flung against the low ravine's jagged stone enclosing the downwards leading slope. Turned into bony and fleshy pulp. Countless of them were vaporised to smouldering ashes in a mere heartbeat.

The air smelt, pungent, of burning flesh.

The remaining knights, barely on their feet, raised their shields to ward of the sudden heat. Still they were driven to their knees, armour creaking, skin blistering.

The raging fire towered twice as high as a grown man, a barrier conjured by natural forces, oppressive and unrelenting was its heat.

But the dead do not fear fire.

The residual droves of vile creatures plunged through the wall of fire and emerged. Skin blistered, bubbling and peeling off, if eyeballs remained they now burst in a splash of foul fluids, their clothes and flesh aflame they continued their advance.

Thus, too, broke the knights' discipline. As predicted there'd be no sanctuary in camaraderie this night. The Redcliffe knights now stood alone, each swarmed by dozens of burning creatures.

With an impressive litany of profanity and curses and threats, Ser Stanley managed to rally the weary half dozen knights that were still alive around him.

Dwyn, sent flying by the concussive wave from the explosion, pulled himself up. He looked over at Araris, and smiled an insane smile.

Araris answered in kind.

The undead rushed towards the tall human and the dwarf. Swallowing the single wedge formation of knights during the process.

Araris' heart quickened in anticipation at the dawning violence. He blinked. As he reopened his eyes, his longsword had already appeared in his hands, flickering left and right. Faces split and painted him in bodily fluids. Chests ripped open from sword slashes, unveiling the intimacy of inner workings of dead bodies. Bellies were ravaged, torn open as if by a massive beast's claw, innards and bile spilling forth.

The dwarven mercenary fought equally as mad at Araris' side. He gifted the undead nothing, other than a permanent end of their miserable condition.

With a quick upwards slash, Araris scythed open one of them from crotch to chin. Another risen dead took its peer's place, eagerly to meet finality at his gory blade. Araris fought on.

Through the maze of death and dying bodies and the fine mist of blood clouding the air, appeared the knights. Three still stood, on wobbly feet, but upright nonetheless.

Ser Stanley stabbed one of the creatures making a try for Araris' life. The middle-aged knight looked deathly pale. He had lost his helmet and a brutal wound covered the entirety of his pate. It looked deep. Blood spurted forth, covering his features, even as he screamed over the rattle of iron.

'We cannot hold!'

_I know._

Araris blade danced with a life of its own, slaying two undead. Taking of them their means to walk. So they crawled, stumps leaking behind them. And Araris took from them their heads.

'We must fall back!' The knight grasped his arm in a hard grip, rattling Araris, as if to wake him from a nightmarish illusion.

What Araris saw in the Redcliffe knight's eyes nearly broke his heart. So much compassion.

For him.

It brought him out of his adrenaline rush and dulled his frenzied bloodlust. Slowly he felt the flaring sting of dozens of negligible wounds, scratches from overly long fingernails drawing fissures across his legs and arms as much as his neck and face.

'Fall back, Araris. Bring them to safety. Defend them!'

Weakly, Araris Cousland managed a nod. More he could not. His hammering heart would not allow it to deny Ser Stanley this . . . mercy.

One last gaze back over the field of slaughter showed him Dwyn fighting side to side with the last Redcliffe knights. Ser Stanley joined them.

Araris turned round and hurried down the slope towards the village.

_A night of loneliness. _

**.**

**.**

A high-pitched scream pierced the Chantry building's courtyard.

'Milord, they're comin' from the lake!'

At the sudden exclamation, Teagan's head snapped towards the shore, cast in gloom. And true to the man's words, in between the decrepit and abandoned buildings of the village, figures rose from the lake's dark surface. Like demons, ghastly. _They must've crossed the lake's bottom._ _Again._

Drenched, leaking water from empty eye sockets and gaping mouths and vicious wounds, they shuffled heavily towards the barricades of stone and wood blocking the numerous entrances into the courtyard.

'Ready yourselves!'

Militiamen archers sent volley after volley of arrows over the barricades. Few of them hit anything at all, even fewer managed to actually fell one of the risen corpses. As long as the barricades held fast that would be no matter. They had enough arrows.

Teagan just hoped that the knights could hold the slope at the wind mill. Otherwise the entire bulk of the undead would push down on them with crushing force.

He saw a figure rushing down the slope and into the courtyard. His lean frame and conspicuous hair told Teagan immediately who approached. Though when Ser Araris of Highever stepped into the blazing bonfire's circle of light, Teagan gasped in shock. Eyes widened, every militiamen in the vicinity experienced likewise reactions.

The young knight was spattered with blood and bile and other inhuman fluids covering all his features. Bits of gore clung to his hair. His armour hung in ragged and mauled tatters, mail broken and torn. Slices and tears covered his flesh, steadily seeping blood.

Yet, he still stood straight and approached with steady steps. He halted in front of Teagan, speaking in hushed tones, 'Get them inside, my lord.'

Teagan frowned, whilst a feeling of chill dread overcame him. 'What? Why?'

Ser Araris pressed, 'Get them inside.'

'What has happened? Tell me!'

The young knight grasped Teagan and shoved him aside, away from the Chantry building's broad double doors. With a push he opened them.

Then he turned round and bellowed, loud for all to hear, 'Get inside, now!'

The militiamen, farmers and fishers one and all, rushed inside like kicked dogs. Not knowing what they had done wrong.

Ser Araris stepped aside to let the throng of frightened people pass.

'By now they'll have broken through. We could not hold them at the mill. There were too many. That's what's happened, Bann Teagan. Now, get inside, barricade the doors with everything you can find and pray to the Maker for the dawn to arrive quickly.'

'Without a proper defence they'll tear these doors down in no time, we must get the men-'

'No, bann. These are no soldiers, sending them out here will gain you nothing, not even time. They're even poorer archers. But, nonetheless, barricade yourself and position archers at every window and every balcony. Tell them not to stop shooting until the sun has risen. Or they'll die.'

Roughly, the young knight shoved him into the Chantry building. Ser Araris turned round, longsword in hand, he waited at the top of the few stairs leading up to the double door. Realisation dawning, Teagan shook his head in denial. An icy grip clenching down hard on his chest, relentless. He asked his question, though he already knew he wouldn't like the answer.

'What will you do?'

'Barricade the doors, Bann Teagan,' commanded he over his shoulder.

**.**

**.**

He inhaled deep the salty air. The reek of burning wood filled his nose. The hacking and clawing away on barricades of inhuman creatures filled his ears. From the left, above on the slope the rush of water's sudden fall and the tremble of countless feet rushing down sounded foreboding.

Behind him the door shut. With finality. The scraping of tables and shelves could be heard, thumping against the double doors.

He readjusted his grip, clutching his longsword with sweaty and bloody fingers.

Araris breathed deep. Eyes closed he cherished this last moment of stillness. His and his alone in this night of dread.

Ready, he returned to the world and faced his enemy.

One last time.

_Many a man breaks, Araris, when faced with impending doom. They're afraid, paralysed by the surrounding horrors. All so alien and unknown. Yet, for all that, it is a choice. So choose!_

Her words ringed true, now more than ever, in his memories.

Finally, he had his answer.

His stance widened.

.

.

Teagan watched through a slit in the barricaded window. Those of the frightened, crowding the Chantry building's insides, who still possessed some kind of morbid curiosity huddled around him, peering out into the night. All eyes on the lone, fair figure.

Yet, to all who witnessed that moment when Ser Araris made his first move, undead creatures lapping up all around him like a rushing wave, was too fast to register. His longsword guided by a single hand as if it weighed nothing flashed and flickered from enemy to enemy creature. It whistled a mournful song of death as it cut through the air. Even his body was a blur, too fast to track. The frenzied flurry of his movements did not abate. Ser Araris did not break his contact with the pressing droves of risen corpses. It went on and on, impossibly on. Two tidal forces, neither willing to yield. Neither willing to grant the other a step. Forward or backward.

As they arrived and lapped up the small staircase, they fell back down. Throats slashed open. Faces carved deep, heads sent flying into the courtyard. Grasping claws and arms severed. Bones shattered, tiny shards splintering off. A mist of fluids arose, covering everything, even fouling the air.

_By the Maker. _

Teagan remembered. Of course, now with such brilliant clarity. He remembered a tournament, so many years ago. How could he have forgotten? The young man who, so unexpectedly, triumphed. How, indeed, could he have forgotten? Blindness had dimmed his memory. Blindness and dread. This young man out there, readily preparing to give his life, was no knight. Never had been. No, he was anything but.

_Forgive us all our sins, dear Maker, for we are befouled by sins, beyond count, all of us are thus, your children._

**.**

**.**

Araris felt vivid. One, not with the world, but with the moment.

As much as the undead lapped up like rising water fighting against a ragged cliff of rock they were repelled again, thrown back into the sea. Solid, stubborn, unmoving stood the stone. They moved, unrelenting, though slow to his eyes. Their movement dull and broken and unimaginative.

Araris' gaze turned ouwards, he fixed on nothing. He did not need to. His muscles knew what to do, guided by his reflexes. Body writhing, he voiced no outcries or bellows. Now his sword spoke. And it spoke with grace and beauty, its song like life itself to his ears. To disrupt would be a crime.

Slashes and thrusts and stabs and low-edged ripostes and deft sidesteps filled the moment.

But as it was with ragged cliffs and hungry, rising waves. Such was it with him.

Time would eat away at anything. Stop at nothing. Until the cliff was reduced to a shore.

Such was it with him. Time his mortal enemy.

The undead creatures closed in on him, ever so slowly. In his mind he perceived the sound of angry waves. Cold and hungry. Ready to do what nature bid them to do. Time was not of the essence. For time was nature's ally.

They closed in, soon near enough to embrace him like countless lovers. Their hot breaths gently caressing his cheek, a blush rising. Araris felt their harsh touch. A brutal tug on his head, a ravaging claw biting his neck and leaving marks, a vicious thrust intend to break.

Araris felt his blood roar in defiance. A bestial temper boiling his blood, ever hotter and stronger with every wound they forced to open. Not the cold and clinical haze he usually felt when stepping out of his body, no this was different. He was still there. Another alien thing entirely.

The beast roared, vengeful, one last time.

The world trembled and nearly cracked open in response.

Before Araris embraced darkness.

Down into the Abyss.

Finality.

**.**

**.**

_Author's note:_

_If there were parts you liked or didn't, I'd tremendously appreciate it if you took a few minutes and submit a review. Constructive criticism will be well received and answered to. Furthermore it'll keep me going, content and happy._


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